


Hypotheticals

by jackiestolz



Category: Smosh
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-05 13:02:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5376170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackiestolz/pseuds/jackiestolz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1953, Anthony is a lonely traveller on an empty road. Ian's just a chef at a random little restaurant, and Anthony's never been inclined to stick around in one place for too long, but something about him and his waitress leaves him lingering.<br/>"He's always thinking of recipes." Mari leaned over and said to Anthony. "He calls them his 'hypotheticals.'"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, my first multi-chapter Smosh fic since Recovery! I'm so excited to be back with you guys, it really feels great to get involved with the community. Anyway, read on, hope you enjoy!

There existed a little Italian restaurant, that sat along the edge of a long and lonely highway by the sea. The highway was one of weary travelers, that climbed a small cliff, wove between large old oaks, past said restaurant, and continued along the rocky shore until reaching a small town that existed solely for those too tired for further driving, and consisted of those who never gathered the strength to drive again. They lived by the ocean, most making their money by fishing and farming. It was a quaint little place, where permanent residents didn't leave, not for any circumstances, except to eat at the little Italian restaurant.

This little Italian restaurant sat on the lower edge of the cliff, with the icy brine of the ocean hitting the rocky outcrop about twenty feet below them. When you sat in the place, you could stare into the candle on your table, swill your wine in its glass, and imagine you dined on the coast of Italy, the waves of the Mediterranean setting the relaxed atmosphere.

When the residents of the small town left their nice old bubble for the restaurant, atmosphere was only part of the reason they went. The food, mainly, was the greatest thing of the place. Homemade spaghetti, kneaded and cut by hand each morning, tender chicken that spent a whole night marinating, locally grown eggplant so succulent it melted in your mouth. When men sat down with their gnocchi di ricotti topped with fresh pesto, risotto so creamy it constituted a meal, or bread that crackled when broken with a center softer than candy floss, they drank their cheap wine and ruminated that the food in that shack on the cliff by the sea was better than the food in Italy itself.

People didn't know of the place before they ate there. And most only ate there by chance. The restaurant had no name; outside, a little neon sign read 'Italian' and nothing more. None of the residents ever bothered asking if it had a name, and they referred to it as 'The Italian Place' or 'That Shack' or 'The Place On The Cliff By The Sea,' but most never referred to it at all, for they never needed to speak of a place they all knew of.

The year was 1953. The weather was cold and harsh. The waves hit the cliff by the sea.

A traveller drove down a dark road, and squinted to see the asphalt just beyond his headlights. The radio had long turned to static, the motor hummed, his breathing was shallow. The earth around his car felt still, and he felt as though he was the only occupant of the planet, and that all of life would be silence now. This was an isolated little cliff he’d found during his voyage to nowhere.

He suddenly noticed a light in the distance, next to the road. A little shack with a little neon sign. He slowed to read it, found the word ‘Italian’, and peered through the curtains to see a couple of small tables, with a few people eating around them. He sighed and considered how much change he had in his pocket, then the growl of his stomach. He pulled into the parking lot reluctantly, then stepped out into the cold and the wind before rushing into the shack.

The place was shockingly warm, hot even, and he pulled off his coat as he sat by the bar. Looking around at the place, he saw walls painted this earthy terra cotta color, and that the whole place was lit up by candles placed at every table. Though the curtains facing the road had been drawn, those at the back were left open, showing the deep abyss of ocean stretching on and on. He looked over to the people in the place; all burly men who’d slipped out of coats and hats and had taken off their belts to sit and eat together. They were probably fishermen, and they looked oddly exposed in only their undershirts and denim jeans. Some had even slipped off their thick rubber boots, leaving only well-worn socks.

A waitress in a little yellow dress came by as he sat at the counter, diverting his attention.

“Coffee, please.” He said, pulling a wallet from inside his cheap suit. She poured a cup as he placed some coins on the counter.

“Anything else?” She asked, and after he shook his head, she asked “Are you sure?”

“Maybe after my next paycheck, doll.” He said with a polite smile, and she nodded and walked into the kitchen, doors swinging behind her. He loaded his drink with sugar and cream, then sat in silence, listening to the men around him. They were mostly silent, chewing on their steaks and pastas. Sometimes they’d talk about a barge or fish, but it was mostly some comforting little quiet.

The waitress returned, holding a little blue bowl, steam rising from it. It matched the mug he drank from, and was just as old and worn.

“Risotto on the house. Chef insists.” She said, and set the rice down in front of him. He had to admit he was starving. She handed him a fork and he took it, then took a bite, feeling instantly warmed all over.

“Send him my compliments.” He muttered, then settled into his food contentedly. He felt his cheeks burning pink with how hot the place was, and slipped off his black blazer, tucking it onto his lap before loosening his thin black tie and unbuttoning the top button on his crisp white dress shirt, wrinkled from being worn so long. He mulled over his thoughts as he ate that heavenly little meal; he’d drove down the east coast, then all across the south, now he was working his way up the west.

The waitress returned and refilled his coffee.

“Thank you, Marie.” He looked at her name tag, then poured in some more cream.

“Mari.” She corrected as she walked away, and he heard someone from the group of men snigger behind him, but he payed no attention.

After his silent meal was done and his coffee cold, he left the tiny place, shivering when he was hit with the freezing air. He ran to his car, long legs looking awkward, and sat down behind the wheel quickly. He had hoped the coffee would wake him up long enough to keep him driving, but he was still bone tired, especially after that little bowl of rice. And he certainly couldn’t afford to go the next town over and pay for a room. He listened to the waves and the howling wind and could only consider what a great spot this would be to sleep. The man had no choice but to give up with a sigh, so he pulled off his shiny shoes, sat them on the passenger’s seat, then climbed awkwardly into the back seat of that old Ford, and wrapped himself up in the blanket that resided there, and quickly fell into a wonderful, soothing sleep, badly needed.

 

. . . 

 

He awoke to a dim light flooding through the windows, the sky grey and overcast. With a stretch and a groan, he shoved the blanket off him and grabbed his shoes from the front seat. Tying them up and stepping out, he was hit by the cold, and shivered as he looked down the mountain. He hadn’t realized how close the parking lot next to the restaurant was to the cliffside; he was about twenty feet from falling to his death. Unnerved, he turned and stepped toward the Italian joint, seeing a man in jeans and a leather jacket having a smoke outside the place.

“Where can a fellow take a piss around here?” He asked the man gruffly. The smoker gave him a quick glance and nodded, looking back at the stretching road.

“In the restaurant.” He pointed his thumb. “Door’s open.”

He thanked the man and walked in, finding that the shack must’ve been built long ago, because there were no lights in the place, only melted candles everywhere and the soft light coming in from the windows. There was an oil lamp in the bathroom, and he suspected there would be some in the kitchen too, but he didn’t stay long, finding the little shack far colder than it was the previous evening. He washed his hands and walked out, seeing the man in the same spot, now moved on to his next cigarette.

“Can I bum one?” He asked, straightening his tie.

The man nodded and pulled a silver cigarette case from his inner pocket, handing one over. Then he tossed his Zippo, and they smoked in silence for a moment. The smell of cigarettes and salty air mixed with this tinge of fry oil, something that reminded the traveler of walking down the boardwalks of New Jersey and breathing in funnel cakes and cigars. Something clicked in his head.

“You’re the cook, right?” He asked, and examined the man. His brown hair was gelled back, not as neat as his own but more loose, with a few locks falling in front of his face. He wasn’t clean shaven -- though neither was the traveller, both had stubble on their face, it was just that the traveller’s came from long nights and no hotel rooms. But the cook was far more pale, and had bright blue eyes to contrast his own dark brown.

“Yeah, I’m the cook.” He nodded passively.

“Thanks for that free grub last night.” He said, and the cook nodded.

“We’ve all been low.” And the traveller nodded now.

“Anthony.” He extended his hand. The cook tossed his cigarette to the side and shook it.

“Ian.” He replied. “What do you do?”

“I’m a bible salesman.” Anthony replied. Ian raised his brow.

“You drive a lot for that?”

“All the time. All across the country.” Anthony replied, warming up to him a bit.

“That’s why you’re way out here.” He said, understanding. “What kind of bibles you sell?”

“Nice family bibles. Good old King James.” He tossed his cigarette and rubbed his freezing hands together.

“How much they go for?” Ian asked him, and Anthony smiled a bit.

“A lot. Five sixty-five a pop.”

“Shit.” Ian said with a chuckle. “Well you know what, bible man? A nice holy book to pay for a man’s meals and hotel room seems like a damn good deal to me. Grab me one of those and I’ll buy.”

“Wha--” Anthony asked, astounded, but Ian had already rushed back into the Italian place with nothing but a clap on his back. He walked back to his car, shivering in the cold, then opened the trunk and pulled out one of the thick, ornate bibles he made his living off of, and followed the cook into the restaurant.

He entered to find the cook behind the bar handling some bills, and the waitress in her yellow uniform striking a match for the candles. As he walked over, the chef shot him the smallest possible smile, then looked to the waitress.

“This ‘just coffee’ cat’s a bible seller.”

“Oh, let me see.” She extended her hand and he gave her the book. Her eyes went wide. “It’s beautiful.”

“Five sixty-five.” Ian said and held out the money. Anthony held out his hand and Ian poured in the bills and change. 

“Thank you kindly.” Anthony said, shoving it in his pocket. “I guess I’ll be off then.”

“Well you drive safely dear, good luck to you.” Mari said with a nod, and took off to the kitchen.

“Yeah, good luck.” Ian said quietly, shutting the register’s drawer.

“You know if there’s a place in the next town where I can get a map?” Anthony asked, thinking of the refreshments he needed before he went on his way.

“Joe’s General Shack. Big sign, can’t miss it.” Ian answered, and Anthony thanked him and left without another word.

 

. . . 

 

The next town was only a minute’s drive away, the nameless home of the fishermen who ate at the little Italian shack. The roads were dirt and the buildings were old wood warped by the sea air. Anthony parked in front of a real old job, the paint peeling away from the ‘Joe’s General Shack’ sign posted on top. He walked in, and was minding the dirt on his shoes and running his fingers through his gelled hair when he approached the cashier and grabbed a map from the stand on the counter.

“Morning.” Said the clerk.

“Morning.” He replied, walking around the shop. “Got a weather report?”

“Where ya headed?” Asked the clerk as Anthony grabbed a bottle of Coke.

“North.” He put the coke and map on the counter and walked amongst the shelves once again.

“Let me pull up the wire.” He grumbled, and started shifting around a pile of papers underneath the counter.

Anthony didn’t respond and instead grabbed some snacks for the road. Twisties, Moon Pies, can of Planters, Ray Rogers cookies. Not as good as last night’s meal, but at least he’d be filled up. He placed them on the counter as the clerk winced.

“North, huh? Big storm coming. Hundred miles up should be the eye around four.”

“Goddamn.” Anthony sighed. He couldn’t cross the mountains in bad weather, he and his car wouldn’t stand a chance. “Trying to avoid the coast in foul weather.”

“I bet if you don’t hit traffic you could pass through before it makes landfall.” Said the clerk. “I’m not a betting man, either, but traffic’s rare around here and you seem to have room for error.”

“I guess I’ll chance it.” Anthony said as the man placed his items in a brown bag. 

“I think you’ll be fine. ‘Sides, it’s headed north, so if it hits you real bad you can turn ‘round and head down here no trouble. A dollar even.”

“Alright.” Anthony handed him the bill and thanked him. “Wish me luck, Joe.”

“How’d you know my name?” Asked old Joe with a wild smile, and Anthony said nothing, but left with a cheery expression.

 

. . . 

 

He didn’t even hit traffic. Just a wall of rain thick as a sheet, hung over him like some goddamn laugh-fest from up above. Of course he had to get fucked by the weather, of-fucking-course. He made a decent attempt at trying to drive through, but the road was soaked and his tires were slipping all over the place, and far too close to the mountain’s edge for his comfort. So he turned and headed back to town, until all he saw was a drizzle and the warped wood buildings yet again, a day of driving wasted. 

It was already late, far too late to go find a room, so he decided to park in the lot he picked last night, and drove up to that little Italian place. Once he parked his car, he debated going into the joint for some grub, something a little better than peanuts and cookies. He finally decided he wouldn’t buy a big meal, but he would use the bathroom, and walked through the drizzle to the door.

Stepping inside, he found the place empty, save Mari, who was wiping down a table. She looked up to him, and he was suddenly a little flustered.

“Sorry miss, didn’t realize you were closed.” He made to shut the door, but the waitress held up her hand.

“We’re not, come on in.” He nodded in thanks. “Thought you were headed out of here.”

“Got stopped by some real bad weather, decided to turn back.” Anthony said, closing the door behind him. “May I use the restroom?”

“Sure thing, doll.” She said pleasantly, and he excused himself.

He found once again that the place was loaded up with candles, and all the curtains closed except the ones on the window that faced the sea. Because it was so late and the world so dark, again the ocean spread out like some deep ravine. But he took his quick piss and stepped out, all rearing to go until someone called out to him.

“Bad weather, huh?” He turned to see Ian standing at the kitchen door.

“Yessir.” He paused, thinking he ought to go, but the room was as warm as last night, and he’d like some warmth before he went to sleep. “Don’t suppose I could get a cup of joe?”

Mari heard that request and went behind the counter, grabbing a little blue mug as Anthony sat at a barstool. Ian said nothing as the cup was poured, but moved aside politely when Mari went into the kitchen for some cream.

“Want anything to chow down on?” Ian asked, but Anthony shook his head. “You sure?”

“Trying to save up.” Anthony said, and Ian pondered that a moment.

“Look, I’m already going to whip something up for Mari and myself. If you like, I’ll make you a plate too, and you can do the dishes and take the cot in the kitchen. Then you won’t owe me a thing.”

“I guess.” Anthony replied. “Why the cot, though?”

“It’s better than a cold car.”

Anthony felt a little flush at that. Maybe he was a trifle embarrassed that he’d been caught by another fellow sleeping in the back of a Ford instead of in a hotel room, or a real home like the rest of the normal folk. Maybe he just felt a little surprised at being cared for.

“Go sit down, I’ll fix us all something.” Ian said, and Anthony returned to his barstool as Mari returned with the cream.

“No need to be formal, sugar, you can take off that tie. You must be suffocating.” Mari said with a smile as she went back to cleaning tables, and Anthony had to agree. His full suit was a bit much compared to Ian’s undershirt and denim jeans, what with the heat of the place. He pulled off his coat and tie, rested them on the back of his chair, and unbuttoned the top buttons on his wildly wrinkled shirt.

He sat and listened to the clinking of pots and pans in the kitchen, and Mari’s near-silent footsteps as she walked from table to table. He turned to see her holding a razor blade, scraping up candle wax.

“You need help?” He asked, nothing better to do.

“Yes actually, can you scrape up some wax?” He walked over to her, and she handed him the blade and walked away. He leaned it against the old wooden table and scraped up the pools of hardened wax around the group of candles that sat on the table, still lit and melting. She returned silently, from a supply closet or the like across the kitchen (that would be the wall directly next to the parking lot on the side of the building) and set down a tin bucket.

“We throw the wax into the bucket.” She said, picking up the hardened stuff and tossing it in. “Then that wax goes into making a new candle. Eventually we add new wax to the mix.”

“Where’d you learn that?” Anthony asked, and tossed a handful into the bucket.

“You pick these things up.” Mari answered simply. “And it’s nice to have a hobby.”

“Why put them here though? Why not keep them home?” They picked up their blades and bucket and moved to the next table.

“I do keep them home. But I make a lot, and this place gets cold, so I put them out here too.” She said conversationally, and Anthony stayed silent, wondering if he should voice his next question.

“So how’d you end up working here?” He asked her after a moment of silence.

“God dammit!” She cried out, but not to him. She quickly put down her blade, and he saw that she’d drawn blood from her finger. He instantly regretted distracting her.

“Shit, I’m sorry.” He said, putting down his own blade and reaching out for her hand, but she pulled away, pinched down her own finger, and hissed a little.

“It’s fine, it’s barely bleeding.” She said, a little wobble in her voice from the pain. “I’ll go bandage it up.”

She took off to the kitchen where Anthony assumed the bandages were, and he picked up his blade and kept scraping, though he now felt a little guilty. But he was only at it for a minute before he heard the doors swing open again, and saw the chef walk out with a steaming plate.

“Come and eat.” He called out, and Anthony halted his work and sat at the counter. As Ian grabbed three forks and three knives from underneath it, Mari returned, holding two plates. 

“Are you alright?” He asked her, and she nodded. She set down the plates in front of them and sat next to Anthony. Ian grabbed the stool in front of the cash register and sat opposite.

“What is this?” Anthony asked, examining his plate. “It looks incredible.”

“Mashed potatoes topped with pork chops and a warm winter frisee salad with a concord grape vinaigrette. I mean, vinaigrette is debatable, it’s the sauce for the pork chop but I thought it would go nice with a salad so-”

“It’s wonderful.” Mari interrupted, and Ian flushed, which was as much emotion as Anthony had ever seen on the man. He was glowing with pride, even if he looked a bit embarrassed to be the center of attention.

Anthony settled into his meal and groaned aloud at his first bite. The potatoes melted like butter, the pork was juicy with an amazing crust, the sauce was tangy from the vinegar and fruity from the grapes, yet still delightfully savory.

“This is so good.” He said with another groan, and Ian smiled a little, but kept his head down.

“Thank you.” Ian mumbled, and Anthony could sense that he was a naturally bashful man.

“You know, if you’re gonna stay the night, you oughta shave.” Mari said with a teasing smile. Anthony rubbed his stubble and grinned.

“I’ve got traveler’s shadow, I admit.” He said. “But the chef here’s not shaven a bit.”

“Hey, I look good with a beard.” Ian joked, and Mari giggled. He pulled out his comb to manage his slicked-back hair, probably disheveled from a hairnet, and picturing it made Anthony grin to himself. He took another bite and groaned once more.

“Is this on the menu?” He asked, and Mari nodded while Ian chewed.

“Only the fall menu.” Ian swallowed and answered. “But replace the salad and plain potatoes with roasted vegetables and mashed maple sweet potatoes.”

“It’s my favorite.” Mari said, and Ian nodded. “You make it just for me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, we needed to use up the pork.” Ian said, and Mari playfully smacked his arm. “I still think using the sauce for a warm vinaigrette could make its own salad, though.”

Anthony hummed as he scarfed down his food, interested in the way the chef thought of food and what could be done with it.

“Frisee, fennel, maybe some pickled beets and eggs.” Ian said thoughtfully to himself, and Anthony screwed up his face.

“Pickled eggs?” He asked, astounded, and Mari laughed.

“Yeah!” Ian fought back. “The blank pallet pairs great with the brine! They’re a pub staple in England.”

“You’ve been to England?” Anthony asked, and Ian sunk back a little.

“No, I read it in a book.” Ian said, and Mari noticed his discomfort. He was clearly not often the one leading the conversation, and she saved him the brief stumble and quickly cut in.

“And once we had a man from London pass through.” Mari quipped. “I asked him, and he said they were always on the shelf but no one ever ate them.”

Anthony laughed at that, and Ian just grinned.

“Scallops!” Ian said suddenly, clearly to himself, then pulled a notepad from beneath the counter and began to scribble something down in unkempt writing.

“He’s always thinking of recipes.” Mari leaned over and said to Anthony. “Writes them down on scraps, experiments with them later.”

“Is he a chef or a mad scientist?” Anthony asked with a quirk of his brow, and Mari smiled through a bite of mashed potatoes.

“A bit of both, I’m afraid.” She said with a smile as Ian ripped the page and stuffed it into the front pocket of his apron. “He calls them his ‘hypotheticals.’”

“They don’t always come out so good.” Ian said, and Mari leaned back into her seat. “But they’re fun to try.”

“And ridiculous, at times. How long has that pot of garlic been sitting in our stove?” Mari asked, playfully cruel.

“Only two weeks!” Ian replied defensively. “That’s how they make them in Korea!”

“Well they better taste good, for the smell they’ve been giving off.” Mari teased, but it was light and cordial. “I know this is an Italian place, but really, that was some strong garlic.”

“It’s faded now.” Ian smiled. “Must be almost done. But this place’ll still reek of garlic when we’re dead and gone.”

“Nothing wrong with that.” Anthony murmured, and Ian nodded. “Say, you hear about that prison on Devil’s Island closing down?”

“The last of many french prisons.” Ian said. “Apparently there weren’t many inmates to move, the place was so run down.”

“Imagine that big empty place, all stone walls and drafts.” Mari said wistfully. “A dark island with a hard past, ripe for exploring, ready for adventure.”

“You seem pretty fond of tall tales.” Anthony observed.

“I dabble.” She answered, and Ian grinned.

“She likes the prison stories. We’re so far north of Alcatraz, but she still likes to imagine break-outs.” Ian said, and Anthony laughed.

“I can’t help it! Ol’ Machine Gun Kelly and Al Capone and Creepy Karpis all behind the same bars, it’s so exciting!” She practically jumped from her seat as she clapped her hands together. Then she made a funny face, in the form of a winking eye and a lilting grin.

“Yeah, see?” She said in a nasal voice, and Anthony laughed. Ian quickly set down his fork and brought his hands up as though holding a rifle.

“I’m glad to see ya, slim, but my tommy gun ain’t.” He replied in an equally nasal tone, and pointed his imaginary gun towards her.

“If you’ve got the moxie, ya goon.” Anthony cut in then, and held up two fists in faux defense.

“Now how ‘bout you blow this stand before ya get the big sleep.” Mari threatened, and Ian threw up his hands in surrender.

“Alright, alright, you’ve got me.” He said with a soft smile. “Blow this stand?”

“That’s what they say!” Mari said, and Anthony snorted.

“Sure they do.” He answered with a grin. “You guys done eating?”

“God, no.” Anthony said, and defensively pulled his plate closer to his chest. Ian smiled again, complimented by his enjoyment, and they all sat in silence for a moment, with only the sounds of their knives against their plates and the distant crashing of the ocean waves to fill their ears.

“I’ve got to go to town soon.” Mari commented conversationally. “I’m running low on candle wax.”

“Thought you had another week?” Ian asked, and Mari nodded.

“Just wanted to warn you. The weather’s being so unpredictable lately, I’m not sure if I should go earlier or what.” She said thoughtfully, and Anthony watched her think to herself. It had been so long that he’d been on the road, he’d forgotten people’s mannerisms, the humanity in simple conversation. Not just having a laugh with a random waitress, but the normalcy of just sitting and talking. His loneliness was suddenly a touch more pronounced.

“We have no storage space.” Ian distracted him from his thought. “We just got our last batch of squash. Wait awhile, I’m sure the weather’ll be fine.”

Mari nodded begrudgingly at that.

“Weather turned him around.” She noted and pointed her fork to the traveller.

“Just for tonight.” He replied. “But there was no way I could drive in that. Rain like a wall. Could’ve drowned if I rolled down the window.”

“Well, it could’ve happened in a worse place.” Mari said with a kind smile, and as he returned it, Ian stood and took their plates.

“Let me help.” He said, about to stand as well, but Ian shook his head.

“You’ll help later when you clean them. Let me grab dessert.” He answered, and went back into the kitchen.

Even though Anthony had just eaten, his mouth watered at the thought of tasting an authentic Italian dessert. He looked over to Mari to see the expectancy in her expression; it was only a testament to how good the food was, the fact that a woman who ate it all the time was still so excited for it.

“Let me work on these candles a little more.” She stood and gave him a wily grin. “I can’t possibly take the anticipation.”

“I’ll help.” He said, and followed her back to the tables.

“As long as you don’t slice up my hand again.” She joked, and Anthony was relieved to realize she held no ill will towards him for his earlier slip up. He quietly picked up his razor blade and scraped at some wax, and they worked together in comfortable silence.

Ian returned only a moment later, with two shallow bowls in each hand and one balanced precariously on the crook of his arm, and Mari stood in a rush and took that one from him.

“You make it look easy.” He said to her in an appreciative tone as he set one dish in front of Anthony, and the other at his own place. Then he reached under the counter and handed them both a spoon.

Anthony sat patiently with wide eyes as he examined the jelly-like white pudding and the cherries and sauce beneath it; a shard of nut brittle that jutted from the top tied the dish together. Ian must’ve noticed.

“Panna cotta sitting on a bed of morello cherries poached in star anise-spiced red wine, and topped with coffee almond brittle.” Ian explained the dish, and Anthony looked at it appreciatively.

“Panna cotta?” He asked as he lifted his spoon and Ian sat.

“It’s like Italian Jell-O.” Mari said, and Ian gasped and put a hand to his chest.

“Italian -- Italian Jell-O?” He asked in astonishment, and Mari stifled a giggle. “How dare you?”

“Well hold on, let’s get a review before we fight this battle again.” She said, and turned to Anthony.

He cut through the gelatinous white pudding with the side of his spoon, like silk, and scooped it up with half a pitted cherry before biting in. The neutrality of the firm yet creamy panna cotta perfectly complimented the steaming cherries, their deep flavor, and the cinnamon-like spice of the star anise.

“Oh my god.” He said simply around a mouthful of fruit, and Ian beamed once more.

“You’d think he’d get used to this praise by now.” Mari said as she dug into her own dish. Anthony only nodded as he pulled out the shard of brittle and took a bite.

“This is so good.” He said with a crunch as he savored the deep coffee flavor and the way it complimented the red wine.

“Thank you.” Ian said quietly, yet he still beamed.

“It’s gelatin and heavy cream. Remind you of anything?” Mari asked with a quirk of her brow, and Ian pointed his spoon as her.

“It’s a type of pudding, it’s nothing like that disgusting lime garbage-”

“It’s exactly like it, it’s just a fancier version!” Mari cut in. “Anthony, back me up-”

“What, don’t drag him in!” Ian grinned. “In Japan they use agar-agar to make something far more comparable-”

“But that’s seaweed! I’m talking gelatin!” Mari fought back, and Anthony felt an incredible sense of endearment for the pair. 

“And I’m talking good food!” Ian countered, then, sheepishly added: “Not to be a snob.”

“After making a meal like this, you have every right to be a snob.” Anthony said earnestly, and Ian grew shy yet again, and merely smiled down at his plate.

“I’m too tired to fight. But you better believe I’ll bring up the Great Jell-O Debate next time we eat this.” Mari said, and Ian rolled his eyes.

“A mousse or a chiffon pie has gelatin, you know.” Ian said, but Mari, her mouth stuffed, shook her head.

“Too late, can’t fight me, too tired. I’m fading away as we speak.” She dramatically held her hand to her forehead, and Ian let out a huff, but it wasn’t a harsh one.

“Well finish dessert and you can get going.” Ian said, nearly done with his own meal.

“Look at this, trying to push me out the door.” She said, but Anthony could hear the weariness of her voice and knew she’d rather go home than stay around much longer, so he obliged her.

“I’ll start with my dish.” He stood, plate empty and stomach bursting, and Ian did the same.

He walked to the kitchen, and Anthony followed him through the steel kitchen doors. Inside, he found a large gas stove, a refrigerator, and a basin with a small stack of dishes in it, but not much else he recognized. A few other large pieces of equipment, but clearly professional grade, nothing familiar to him. As Ian led him towards the basin, he spotted a small cot in the corner, and he felt a rush of gratitude at being able to sleep in a warm building instead of a cold car.

“Few sponges, plenty of soap.” Ian said as he put the dish into the sink. “There are rags under here for drying, and the plates get stacked over there.”

“Fair enough.” Anthony said, and set his own plate in.

“I’ll check on you in a bit.” Ian said, and now without cheerful company seemed to fade back into the restrained gentleman Anthony had first met earlier in the day. He then walked out, and Anthony cleaned without qualms, too grateful for the cot to be even the least bit upset about dirty dishes.

By the time he’d finished, Ian hadn’t come to check on him, so he washed his hands and exited the kitchen to find the cook sat at a table, eyes on a book. Mari had to’ve slipped out while he was tidying up, as the razors and bucket of wax were gone and the candles all blown out, save for the one in front of Ian. When Anthony swung the kitchen door open, he looked up and nodded curtly.

“The appliances are hooked up to a generator.” Ian said. “So if you need water in the night, stuff in the fridge is cold.”

“Alright. Promise I won’t mooch.” Anthony said with a courtesy smile, and Ian shifted uncomfortably.

“I’m downstairs if you need me. But the door’s locked.” He said, and Anthony nodded.

“Course. Ya gotta be careful when you’ve got random travelers around. You never know, nowadays.” He answered, and Ian seemed relieved that he hadn’t come off rude.

“Well, goodnight.” Ian mumbled, and closed his book. There was a spiral ham on the cover, and were they closer friends, Anthony would’ve laughed aloud at the knowledge that Ian read cookbooks in his spare time, for fun it seemed. But he only nodded and returned to the kitchen.

He had really taken a shine to Ian and Mari. Ian was reserved, surely, but he admired that solemness, even if it only partially existed because the fellow was shy. Mari was cordial as well, formal as a waitress yet pleasant company in a casual setting. They were clearly kind, clearly generous, to sit with a stranger and trade food for favors without hesitation. Yes, he couldn’t help himself but to indulge in human company after so long doing nothing but his business with the bibles, and who better to do it with. He really liked them.

And they didn’t know shit about Devil’s Island.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter one: december 2015  
> chapter two: january 2017  
> chapter three: february 2019???

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case you can't recall, last chapter Anthony met Ian, a chef at a little Italian joint, and Mari, the waitress. He exchanged a warm meal for washing dishes and spending a night in a cot and now means to depart. but will he??

When he awoke in the morning, it was cold, but he’d slept soundly through the night as the temperature had slowly fallen from the lack of crowds and candles. His head didn’t ache, a pleasant rarity, and the opportunity to fully stretch out as he slept had done wonders for his back. He could only describe how he felt as peaceful, and he almost lamented the loss of night as he slipped into his shirt and fastened the buttons.

“Morning.” A gruff voice sounded from the door, and Anthony couldn’t help but jump slightly. He turned to see the chef at the door and relaxed at the sight of the obviously drowsy form.

“Morning.” He replied, also a little hoarse. Ian shifted wordlessly behind him, and he saw him step over to the many percolators on a nearby shelf. Anthony stood then, crossed the room, and went into the bathroom to take a piss. As he washed his face with cold water, he wondered if the old place even had a water heater, it being so ancient and in need of a generator just to run a fridge. But he looked at it as more a delightful quirk than a fault, and was sure the restaurant’s patrons did the same. 

When he stepped out, he found his tie and coat hung on a chair at one of the tables, and put said coat on full of relief at the chance to warm up. He threw his tie around his neck and turned to look out to the sea, grey and foaming and looming like some terrible giant. It was tenacious in its efforts against the cliff, and all Anthony could hear was the clinking of china from the next room and waves crashing into rock. It was the world’s most formidable foe, yet still so comforting, so familiar.

He heard the kitchen door open, and turned to see Ian holding a pair of little blue mugs, and he put them on the counter silently and headed back into the kitchen without a word. Anthony got the gist and pulled up a barstool, then the chef returned, percolator in one hand, a bottle of cream in the other. He set them both down, then pulled a sugar bowl from beneath the counter, and they prepared their coffee in silence.

As Anthony took a sip of the warm, strong brew, he couldn’t help but realize that that would be the last meal the chef made for him before he set out on the road again, and in his gut he felt a surprising punch of disappointment. He wasn’t one for attachments, and he rarely stayed in one place for very long, and he wanted to tell himself that any feeling of attachment was short-lived.

He glanced over the rim of his mug and watched the man seated across him with an almost furtive expression, mindful of himself yet more mindful still of his curiosity. He couldn’t understand why he wanted the chef to say something, to open his mouth and start a conversation, any conversation, but the desire was there nonetheless. Ian, of course, was a quiet man, and he said nothing. And some part of Anthony told him to be the one to speak first, but when he racked his brain, he found nothing to comment on.

What was there to say, after all. They were strangers, they’d only met a moment and shared a single meal, and now one was off into the real world and another was back to his regular life, and that was that. It was mundane, really, nothing special to say of it, so Ian didn’t speak, and Anthony didn’t speak, and neither took a second cup of coffee.

“I oughta get going.” Anthony finally said after a few minutes. Ian nodded slowly.

“Yeah, you oughta.” He replied in a casual drawl. “Beat any traffic.”

“Yeah.” Anthony mumbled, almost more to himself, and set down his mug. He sat for a moment longer, to prolong the inevitable, but it was a farce and he knew it, so he stood and stretched his legs, and Ian awkwardly stood as well.

“Thank you for the meal and cot.” Anthony said.

“Thank you for doing the dishes.” Ian replied, and Anthony gave him the smallest grin. “Good luck on the road.”

“Thanks. Good luck in the kitchen. You don’t need it.” Anthony said, his grin a little wider, and Ian returned it.

Without another word, he stepped out of the little shack, and found the weather as cold as it was inside. The sun was hidden yet again, and the thick white clouds gave no warmth to his cheeks, so he folded his arms and walked briskly to his car. Once inside, he rubbed his hands and breathed hot air into them, then turned on the engine of his beloved Ford Victoria with a pleasant whir. He sat just a moment longer, but felt foolish for lingering, and drove out of the lot, albeit slowly.

He couldn’t help but chastise himself as he drove down the highway. Why take his time, why pause when no one ever paused for him. Surely, he was wildly overreacting, and soon this place would be nothing but a grievance in the back of his mind.

The town grew larger on the horizon. He could see ships casting off from port, and knew they were aiming to fish all they could before the sun set, so the fisherman aboard could end their day inside that little Italian restaurant. He imagined sullen faces, wet and cold and reeking of salt water, and the way those expressions would just dissolve upon arrival at that little shack, then be replaced with joy or relief or a deep and soulful satisfaction at a bite of bolognese or tiramisu.

Those were his imaginings, of the chef and the little waitress and what joy they could bring, and they filled him for a few passive minutes before he sighed, internally cursed himself a fool, and turned right, into the town.

He drove slow on the main road, not quite sure what he was looking for, but a looming old building slowed him further. Tall and narrow, with a small lot surrounded by dying plants without flowers, which seemed more due to lack of care than the impending cold of winter. On the worn out picket fence there rested a sign, the words _Cliffside Hotel_ painted in thin, peeling letters.

Anthony felt his face grow warm. He knew this wasn’t something he should consider, maybe not for any specific reason; he was in no rush to journey forward, he had a nice bit of money from that last sale, and he was safe and secure with friendly folk nearby. But that hint of friendliness was the problem, after all -- he didn’t want to let himself be charmed by something that would eventually disappoint him.

And yet, he was charmed. Charmed by the faded white picket fence of this mysterious little hotel, charmed by the dirt roads and the dock and the smell of the air and the thought of enjoyable company, something he hadn’t experienced in far too long.

“You idiot.” He mumbled to himself, then turned into the parking lot and switched off his car. He walked from the side of the building to the front, hands in his pockets and breath foggy in the chilled air, and swung open the dark oak door.

The insides were not so humble, and Anthony couldn’t help but be temporarily awed by the austerity of the foyer. The building was clearly old and unkept, with dust on every surface and the scent of it heavy in the air, but beneath the temporary ruin there was a deep red carpet, a grand staircase immediately ahead, with a water fountain tucked beneath the circling stairs. A chandelier caked in grime could barely glitter, and in the gloom he saw details of finely carved wood, intricate little flowers atop every doorway and all along the banister.

He was startled by the sound of a man clearing his throat, and looked to his immediate left to see a reception desk. Just as finely detailed, and the man stood behind it wore an impeccable suit. He was pale and thin, his hair dull and eyes distant, a bored expression on his face.

“Checking in, sir?” He asked, and Anthony stilled.

Was he? Was he so charmed that he could overlook how great a fool he was, how greatly he would be hurt later? He stood and stared at the man, who was his own age but somehow looked as though he’d been stood in that time and place for an eternity. The style of the building told him it had sprung up in the 1910’s, maybe the twenties, but with the stillness of the air, something felt archaic about the place.

“Checking in, sir?” He heard the voice again, a little irritated this time, and stepped forward at that.

“Yes.” Anthony answered, and fumbled with some change in his pockets.

“How long, sir?” He asked, and when Anthony paused, unsure, the clerk gave him a knowing look, as though he was quite used to watching travelers finally settle. “I’ll put down ‘indefinite.’”

“Thank you.” Anthony said, and placed some coins onto the counter as he glanced to the man’s name tag. “Matt.”

“Of course.” The clerk replied easily, and the strain in the room fell forgotten. “Welcome to Cliffside.”

“Is that the name of this ol’ town?” Anthony asked with a glance around the darkened room.

“This town has no name.” He responded, and Anthony felt an unexpected chill on his spine, and attempted to distract himself.

“How do y’all send letters?” He asked jokingly, but the look the clerk gave him forced his smile away. They didn’t send letters. They didn’t communicate with the rest of the weary world. They fished, they ate Italian food, they stood in dark little hotels, and they did so in solitude. And yet Anthony felt no rush to leave.

“Room eight.” Matt said after a moment of writing, and took down a key from the old brass hangers and handed it to Anthony. He stared down at it in his palm a moment and admired the way it was just as intricately crafted and finely displayed as the rest of the place.

“May I show you to your room, sir?” Matt asked, and Anthony nodded. 

The man walked ahead, and as Anthony followed, he saw the fountain more closely. It was marble, the genuine thing, and the sculpture depicted simple flowers and angels all intertwined. Below it, the fountains sputtered water into a small marble pool covered in golden tiles, old and cracked, but still obviously exuding wealth.

Matt continued onto the stairs, and Anthony followed and noted the dust on the railings. He concluded that the place was as empty as it first appeared, and wondered if anyone else was staying in the other rooms, or even lived there. Certainly, it was something he would find out, as he’d now dedicated himself to staying there awhile.

They stopped at the first floor, though the stairs continued on, and Matt lead Anthony down a narrow hallway. The dark red carpet remained, and with no windows, only an occasional sconce crafted finely from steel lit the way. At the end of the hall, they halted at another dark wooden door, with flowers and butterflies carved into the oak. A brass eight was nailed to the front.

“Your room, sir.” Matt said, though of course it was obvious. “The washroom and showers are at the end of the hall.”

“Hotel’s that old, huh?” Anthony attempted a slight laugh again, and Matt only nodded humorlessly.

“Cliffside was built in 1901.” He said. “By enterprisers, who thought this land would be worth more.”

“So the hotel came before the town.” Anthony mused, but the clerk shook his head.

“There was always someone out here.” He said. “Fisherman, miners. There is a shack on the edge of town that must be at least a hundred years old. Might I recommend you dine there, sir? They serve excellent Italian.”

“Yes, I’ve had it.” Anthony said with a little grin. “It is excellent indeed.”

“Enjoy your time here, sir.” Matt said as he turned away. “Let me know if anything is required.”

Anthony nodded, but the man was already down the hall and headed back to the stairs, so he instead turned the key with an echoing click and opened the door to his room. When he entered, he noted first the smaller size of it; there was only room for a queen-sized bed, an armoire, a set of drawers and a writing desk. There was one small window in the room, with barely any grey light flowing in, but when he flicked the switch next to the door, he was greeted with an orange flicker from a cobweb-covered chandelier.

It was then that he truly noticed the beauty of the room, as filthy as it was from the lack of care. The headboard, more dark oak, was carved with angels, that chandelier beaded with crystal and pearl, the armoire clearly old and well made, the writing desk small but firm, the dresser large enough for his full wardrobe.

He stepped in, closed the door behind him, and began to inspect the room in closer detail. When he stepped towards the cylinder desk he saw an oil lamp sat on top, and upon opening it, found several fine fountain pens, a pad of yellowed paper, an ink well and quill, and a pack of playing cards. Even something as small as the playing cards were old and fine, and the outer package detailed gold foil and hand-painted royalty.

He moved along to the armoire and opened it to find several wooden hangers and, sat at the bottom, a bag of dried petals. _Miller’s Flower Shoppe_ , read the tag on the ribbon, and Anthony could only guess that a local florist had provided the potpourri. In the dresser he only found a bible, small and leather bound and far below the kind he sold, and he briefly wondered if there was an owner to this place around and interested in a deal.

The bed was covered in a velvet duvet, red to match the carpet, with crisp white sheets and pillow cases beneath. He sat down and sunk into the mattress as he gazed out the window. Despite being called the Cliffside Hotel, it wasn’t that close to the water, and though he could see the docks from the distance, he saw small buildings around him first. Little and old, with crumbled brick or warped wood. It felt so distorted from reality, so odd and out of place, yet it was just another small town, just more Americana. He’d become so accustomed to hay bails and corn on his trek about the country that this old fisherman town was almost an adventure.

But he didn’t have adventures anymore, not when his whole life now was moving and selling, moving and selling these damned bibles. He was content with that, and had never been keen on stopping, but in this particular town, there was a difference. A friendly face that he couldn’t find among the barns or the mountains or the big cities in his previous travels.

He no longer felt himself a fool. It was reasonable to want companionship, but even more reasonable to stay in a lavished room in a pretty little town just ripe for bible selling. No, he could stay here and profit awhile, and when his want for a friendly face was sated and the townsfolk tired of him and his bibles, he’d take his leave again, simple as that. He just had to wait for all these foolish emotions to run dry, and make a little cash in the meantime.

With that, he stood and decided to shower and change and left the room, went back down the stairs, and out past Matt to his car. He opened the back door and grabbed the small suitcase on the floor of the car, which contained all of his clothing, as his trunk was too filled with books to place any personal belongings.

When he walked back in, he declined Matt’s offer to carry his bag, and bounced up the stairs, though he made a note to himself to explore the ground floor of the hotel later on. Back at his room, he removed his coat and tie and laid them down on the bed, then picked out a new suit, grey instead of black, and a new tie, thin and black again, and another crisp white shirt, well folded to avoid a need to iron.

He took them all to the thick oak door at the end of the hall marked ‘Powder Room’ in golden letters, and opened it slowly as to not catch any other patrons of the hotel unawares. But the light was off, and when he found the switch and flipped it he found extravagance in the empty room; another chandelier of crystal and pearl, several sinks along the wall embedded in a marble counter, floor tiles flecked with gold. Opposite the sinks there was a line of toilets, not in stalls but water closets for the sake of privacy, and Anthony knew it was a very polite gentleman who’d planned this room so long ago. 

He stepped in further and found he could step left or right into two identical rooms with claw-foot tubs and showers. The room on the left provided bubble bath, lady’s soap, and bottles of perfume, so he took to the right room and found shaving foams and brushes beside razors and bottles of soap and cologne. Pleased at the accommodations, he hung his shirt on a hook and set the rest of his clothing on a stool beneath it. Though he knew he was alone, he was unsure of who would step in, so he closed and locked the door.

He pulled off his shirt and attended to the traveler's shadow Mari had so kindly teased the previous day; it felt good to clean himself up and feel presentable again. Once his stubble was gone, he stripped down and turned the bronze knobs of the shower. The water was clear and hot, and he enjoyed feeling refreshed as he lathered soap all along his body and ran shampoo through his hair. He stood in that shower a long while, reluctant to depart from the steam, but finally knew it was time to exit and so stepped out. 

He grabbed a soft towel from a pile next to the shower and dried himself off, then examined himself in a mirror before he changed. His hair was no longer coated in gel, and became downy and curled as it dried. He was as thin and always, though more pale than he liked what with all his time on the road. Still, with his bare cheeks and hygienic form, he was satisfied and dressed without complaint. When he unlocked the door and exited the room he found the rest of the bathroom undisturbed and could only assume he was the only person on this level, a thought that relaxed him.

He returned to his room and deposited his filthy suit into a hamper by the door, then stepped up to the window and glanced out; it was cold near the glass, and the sun was still tucked behind the clouds. It was only midday and Anthony didn’t want to rush back to the Italian restaurant so quickly, nor did he want to waste such lovely weather, so he decided to set out and explore the town instead.

He exited his room and walked down the grand staircase, past Matt at the clerk’s desk, and out in front of the hotel to his car. From the passenger’s seat he grabbed his tan wool overcoat and black leather gloves and pulled them all on before he walked down what could pass for a street. The main road was paved stone, not dirt but not asphalt, with a large ditch on either side of the road as he’d seen plenty of times in the more rural parts of the country. The land wasn’t so flat as a corn farm or prairie's, but the ditches were still nearly filled with rainwater and he suspected the autumn storms had been more than frequent here.

He walked past a few nondescript buildings, all old and tired, their wood graying and brick crumbling, and he assumed none had electricity. He passed something that may have been a fisherman’s shop with tackle in the windows, then an automobile repair place with a large garage door open and an old Model T inside. One gentleman in a pair of denim overalls was inspecting the engine, and the other beside him held a toolbox and handed a wrench or bolt to him on occasion. Neither paid him any mind; to see someone settle here must have been a normal affair, one that had to tire them as young as they were.

He continued on to see a small white store with a little sign on the front – Miller’s Flower Shoppe, to match the potpourri in his closet. He stepped closer to look into the window and saw small glass dishes filled with dried rose petals and smiled a little at the quaintness of it before he heard a bell and saw the door open.

“Like to take a look, mister?” A blonde woman asked him. “I’ve got a beautiful selection.”

He hesitated, a little surprised and a tad shy and awkward, but it was cold and the woman had a kind air about her, so he nodded and shuffled in. The warmth of the place hit him first, then the heady scent of jasmine and lilac, plus hints of orange and cinnamon. It was a cramped little room, the floor occupied by house plants of all varieties, with one wall lined with empty vases and another with small linen packets of dried petals like those in the windows. There were arrangements, too; vases full of cheery shades of yellow and orange to match the season, romantic red roses, and piles upon piles of carnations in every shade of pink.

“Are you interested in anything specific, sir?” The woman asked, and he turned to her. She was pretty and at ease, pale with brown eyes and donned in a simple red circle dress. “A boutonniere won’t do too well in this weather, but I can give you a case and you can put it on once you’re inside.”

“No, I –” He shifted awkwardly. “I’m sorry, doll, I’m just new to town. I was looking ‘round all curious.”

She nodded in understanding, and he saw again that this was not an uncommon occurrence. She didn’t make him feel unwelcome for it and so he decided to indulge her and stepped further into the shop. The arrangements were all very nice, and the place was kept far cleaner than the dusty hotel he’d just left. The warmth seeped into him, and he was grateful for it as she shut the door behind him.

“How about a flower for a lady, hm?” She asked, and he shook his head. “Come on, a handsome gentleman such as yourself has to have a dame.”

He blushed and instinctively flatted his mess of curls.

“I’ve been on the road.” He said by way of explanation, a rather convenient excuse.

“Some dried petals, then.” She seemed eager to make a sale. “I sell to every man in town, little packets to hold in their pockets so they don’t have to breathe in the seaweed all day.”

Anthony smiled a little. That had to be where the bulk of her business came from; he couldn’t imagine there were many weddings around there.

“Where do you get all the flowers?” He asked as he stepped further in to inspect some pinecones covered in glitter.

“They grow on the mountain. Around.” She answered simply. “I could hitch a ride down to the big farms down the road sometimes, but that’s quite the trip.”

He nodded, though he should have known that answer. For all the beauty in that small room, there weren’t many flower varieties to be had. All local, all what she could gather or what a nearby gardener could produce. He studied the pinecones again, and she looked eager still.

“Or if you’ll be around awhile you can stop at the library.” She began, and he perked up. “Olivia sells coffee and teas inside, I grow some of the leaves, dry some of the petals.”

“There’s a library? With a teashop inside?” He asked, and she nodded. She had been kind, so he smiled a little and pointed to the wall of packets. “Maybe I’d like my pockets full of posies.”

“I’ve got wildflowers.” She stepped over to the wall, quick with excitements. “Or something rosy. Or verbena!”

They stood at the wall and she took down bag after bag to make him sniff until he finally settled on something earthy and sharp. Moss, she’d explained as she rung up his product. And sage leaves, burnt cedar, cloves, and a bit of orange peel.

“You have expensive taste.” She said, and if it was a jibe or a compliment he smiled and nodded either way and handed her two dollars. “Have a good day, sir. I hope to see you again soon.”

“And you as well.” He said as he slipped the potpourri into his pocket. “Say, where’s that library?”

“The biggest building, ‘sides the hotel. All brick and closer to the shore. You can’t miss it.” She directed, and he nodded his thanks and set out back towards the hotel, then past it until he found what she was referring to.

It was big, that was true enough, and old as the devil. The bricks were all mossy, and the wooden stairs at the heavy mahogany front doors were near collapsed. When he approached, he peered through a window only to find the whole place dim from nothing but candlelight. The door creaked as he opened it, and when he stepped in he was greeted with a grim nod from a man sat at a front desk who seemed more focused on his reading than kindly introductions. David, the sign on his desk read, but Anthony didn’t trouble himself with it and entered the establishment in silence.

It was the most populated part of town he’d seen thus far, if the Italian place were excluded. There were a few old men there, no doubt retired from the sea, and some housewives with one or two children. He went in further and scanned the books casually, all the way down to the end of the building, where he spotted a girl in a small alcove wiping down a gas oven. Next to her was a shelf full of tins, ceramic pots, tea cups, before her a small table crowded with napkins and little jars of sugar and honey. Two kettles sat ready on the burner, and Anthony surmised who she was as he approached. When she heard his footfall, she looked up and smiled pleasantly.

“Tea, sir?” She asked. She was Asian, with a thin frame and long dark hair. Her navy capris and floral button-up were the height of women’s fashion, and Anthony wondered if this small town were far enough from every shred of pop culture that her looks were frowned upon.

“The florist recommended you.” He responded. “Could I get something she worked on?”

“How does black tea with mint sound? It’s nothing like a candy cane, I promise.” She said sweetly, and he nodded approvingly. She pulled out a matchbox and lit a burner on the stovetop, then set a copper kettle on the flames. “Ruth bully you into buying a potpourri packet?”

He had forgotten to ask the woman for her name, but nodded all the same and pulled it from his pocket. Olivia beckoned him forward, and he held it out for her to take a breath. She closed her eyes and smiled.

“Expensive taste.” She echoed an earlier sentiment, and Anthony smiled politely as he pocketed it and she turned and grabbed a teacup and saucer for him, both painted with little red flowers. “You like it strong?”

“Whatever you endorse.” He didn’t often drink tea, he wasn’t sure how to take it. “So you own this place?”

“Just this oven and all these spoons.” She grabbed a tin from a shelf. The top was labeled, but Anthony couldn’t read the unfamiliar language. “David’s the owner, he just lets me sell my wares.”

“Ah, that sullen fellow up front.” He said, and she gave him a wry grin as she spooned tea leaves into a small metal infuser.

“You can’t talk to him while he’s working his way through a book.” She explained. “But once he’s done he’ll go on about dragons for at least a week.”

Anthony snorted as the kettle began to whistle, and Olivia pulled it from the burner at lightning speed and poured it into his little ceramic cup. She dropped the infuser in, set a spoon on the saucer, and slid it towards him. He picked it up gently, and she set down a mismatched sugar bowl with a palm frond painted on it.

“Thank you.” He said as he pulled a dime from his pocket. “And my regards to the florist, of course.”

“I hope you enjoy it.” She said. “There are tables all around for your pleasure.”

He thanked her again and walked off, and got out of her point of view as to avoid feeling awkward. He found a small table in the fiction section and set down his tea and sugar before scanning the shelves around him. He didn’t want the tea to grow cold, so he selected his reading quickly, a familiar favorite called Billy Budd. When he returned to his chair he set the book down and stirred a spoonful of sugar into his cup – he usually drank his tea with cream, but had to assume Olivia knew what she was doing.

He held the cup in both hands as the steam rose up and warmed his cheeks. The smell was heady, with the black tea fragrant and pronounced with a lovely aroma of mint. A sip proved the flavor to be of similarly wonderful satisfaction; the tea was intense, the mint fresh and bright, not sweet and artificial like he was so used to in the grasshopper pie he’d eaten in diners all across the country. With a feeling of contentment, he settled into his book with the first ease he’d felt in some time.

 

* * *

 

He could barely see the text in front of him when he finally decided to give up on his reading, even after David silently deposited a candle next to his long empty teacup. Truth be told, he was starving after just coffee in the morning and tea in the afternoon, though he was debating just what to do about it. A large part of him wanted to return to the Italian restaurant and satisfy that urge to see Mari and Ian again, but he worried about how awkward that could be given the fact that he’d said he was leaving. But they were the reason he’d decided to stay, so finally he returned his book to the shelf and stood to go.

On his way out, he passed by David as he set down his book and stifled a yawn, and Anthony smiled.

“Have a good night. Enjoy that story of yours.” He said, and David perked up.

“Thank you.” He replied, and Anthony paused with a wicked little thought.

“Say, you wouldn’t happen to have a bible on these shelves, would you?” He asked with a charming grin.

“Man’s greatest story.” He said. “Nonfiction section.”

“But is it a nice copy?” Anthony asked. “Sturdy with an ornate cover?”

David shook his head honestly, and Anthony took a step closer.

“You’re in luck, my friend. I happen to sell the greatest bibles in the country. Beautiful babies, all of ‘em, and I bet an outstanding expert in the field such as yourself would really value a book like that.”

“I would, actually.” He said easily. “And I’ve got the budget for it. You got a price?”

“Five sixty-five.” He said, and David winced immediately. “Or maybe I can give it to you for only three dollars, if you display it up front.”

David looked thoughtful a moment, then sighed and nodded.

“What can I say? You’ve convinced me.” He opened the register drawer and pulled out three dollars, and Anthony accepted with a gracious bow of his head. “You deliver?”

“Yessir. I’ll drop it off bright and early tomorrow.” He took the money and slipped it into his pocket. “It was a pleasure doing business with you.”

“And you.” David allowed with an amiable little smile, and he shook the man’s hand before he departed.

It was with three dollars fresh in his pocket that Anthony walked back to his car in front of the hotel in the dark – there were no lampposts to light the way, only the glow from nearby houses and the occasional flash of headlights to help him on his way. He suspected that the only reason half the town had electricity was that the hotel brought it there. It was a short drive to the restaurant, and the lot next to the little building was so crowded he wondered if there would be any room inside.

It was cold outside, but as he swung the door open he was hit with a familiar warmth and a wonderful smell of basil and garlic. It was crowded, that was for sure, but among the many men sat over their dishes he met eyes right away with Mari in her little yellow dress, and she smiled in her surprise and bent her head towards the bar. He shut the door behind him and sat at one of the stools with thankfully no one on either side of him. She was over in a moment, her eyes brimmed with affection.

“Hey there, stranger.” She set a glass in front of him and filled it from the pitcher she held. “Like a menu?”

“Can you ask him to make me whatever’s fastest?” He asked bashfully. “I’m starving.”

“Sure thing, doll.” She whisked away through the metal door of the kitchen, and he took a grateful sip of water. In a moment she exited with a plate in either hand, and he watched her walk past him to a table in the back, where she deposited the food to two eager fishermen. When she turned back around, he looked away quickly to not get caught watching.

“Bad weather again?” He heard her ask as she stopped next to him, and he smiled.

“I deserve a break from all the driving, I think.” He said after a moment’s thought. “I won’t be here too long.”

“How’s Matt?” She asked with a knowing look, and he chuckled.

“Austere as that ol’ hotel.” He answered. “You know the town, then?”

“Well enough, though I’ve never stayed in the hotel.” She said. “You explore today?”

“Yes ma’am.” He grinned. “I got a pocket full of moss and a cup of tea at the library. You know olivia?”

She looked hesitant, and he realized what it could have sounded like; an ignorant assumption that the only two Asian women he knew of in the town were known to each other, maybe related. But she answered politely before he could apologize.

“I know her.” She said finally. “We’re not related or anything.”

She looked over his shoulder, and he wondered if this was something she could discuss there. California was more liberal than a lot of areas, but it was a small town he knew nothing of, and if she was frightened he would understand and stay quiet. She didn’t show terror at any rate.

“I have plates to clear.” She said, distracted. “I’ll check on your food.”

And she was off without another word. He bounced his leg as he waited, half starved, and after a moment in the kitchen he was relieved to see Mari return and head in his direction. She set the dish in front of him with a napkin and utensils, told him to enjoy, and scurried back in, presumably to clean or gather more plates. 

Anthony looked down at the meal in wild anticipation; it was a pasta that looked fresh and house-made in a light colored cream sauce. Flecked with parsley and topped with shaved parmesan, it looked perfectly simple yet absolutely delicious. He twisted the noodles around his fork and took a bite, then fought back a groan. It was unexpectedly rich in flavor, the intense backdrop of pork cut into by the earthy flavor of finely chopped mushrooms and the briny, savory taste of anchovies. The pasta was perfectly al dente, the garlic delightfully and mercilessly strong, the red pepper a sharp and lovely hit to the back of his throat. He dug in and was a third of the way through by the time Mari returned.

“Spaghetti alla carbonara with pancetta, mushrooms and anchovy.” She answered his unasked question. “Enjoying it?”

“So much.” Was all he could answer before he swallowed. “Is Ian very busy? I’d love him to come out so I could properly compliment the chef.”

She gave him a soft look and he drank it in, so unused to the creature comforts of another person’s fond attention.

“He never does, these folk would have a shocked uproar.” She said, and leaned in and lowered her voice. “He’s a quiet fellow, you really caught him by surprise when you asked him for a smoke the other morning.”

Anthony nodded, and when someone called for the check she vanished. It was funny, to know he’d only met this man by luck, by chance, but here he still sat and ate and delayed his weary journey. He continued to eat his food as Mari scurried around, but after a few minutes she walked out of the kitchen and leaned real close.

“See that partition in the wall?” She pointed to a little screen he hadn’t seen before, one that blended in so well with the terra cotta paint. “It’s between here and the kitchen.”

He looked up and examined it a moment before, to his surprise, it slid open just a hair, and Ian glanced out and over his way. He smiled when they caught eyes, and when Anthony bowed his head in respect it grew even wider. Mari let out a soft laugh and moved away, and when Anthony glanced away a moment Ian disappeared, much to his unexpected disappointment. 

It only took him a few minutes longer to finish his meal, and when Mari returned and asked if he wanted dessert, he insisted he was far too full. She laughed lightly as she took his plate away, and when she returned from the kitchen she handed him the check.

“Ian agrees with me.” She said, and wore a sly grin when Anthony stopped counting his change to give her a questioning look. “He likes the curls, too.”

He felt a blush creep up his neck as he reached up to try and fail to flatten it down. With a mumbled thanks, he paid, wished her well, and took his leave. She didn’t seem too worried about whether or not he would return tomorrow.

He tucked his hands in his pockets as he rushed to his car, the cold bitter after such a lovely warmth. When he got in and started the engine, he recalled seeing Ian for a moment from the kitchen and felt an odd tug deep in his gut. The way he’d smiled, the way his eyes had shone, it stirred an old feeling, one he’d been told so many times was forbidden. But he shook himself and repeated his earlier thought; stay until the feelings fade, and not a moment longer.

He just wasn’t sure when that would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! yes, in super old hotels (esp european hotels) the bathrooms were at the end of the hall, not in every room. leave a comment and let me know what you think :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> well that escalated quickly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i forgot to mention last chapter that ruth is courtney miller. the name courtney would have been pretty weird for someone born in the thirties so i grabbed her middle name.

When he awoke the following morning, he stayed in bed in a rare and indulgent bout of leisure. For a long while he drifted comfortably in and out of sleep until he finally could do so no longer, then stood, stretched, and stepped over to the window. He drew back the dark red curtains to reveal a clear day, the sun bright and shining off the distant sea. It was the first day the weather had been so brilliant in awhile, and he knew it was a chance to leave, but he didn’t even consider taking it. He was here for now and what would come must.

He gathered up his gray suit and headed down the hall and into the powder room to find it once again empty. Inside there was silence but for the distant sound of a rattling pipe, and Anthony had to assume it was another shower being had elsewhere in the building. It could have meant he was not the only guest in the building, or that Matt the clerk was getting cleaned up – he wasn’t sure which he preferred. The solitude was not a complete nightmare to him, but this big empty place could get lonely in time.

He shook himself. He would not stay long enough to find loneliness, as often as they’d met before, and pushed it forcibly from his mind as he turned on the shower. The water was hot enough to turn his skin bright red, but he stood there for far longer than he needed to, until he finally tired of it and then for awhile after. When he exited, dressed, and tousled his hair dry, he knew he did have two important things to do that day, and the first should have been done sooner rather than later given that it involved a healthy dose of caffeine.

He dropped his laundry in his room and headed downstairs, where he found Matt to be quite dry in both his crisp nod and physical appearance. Not alone, then, but he chose not to dwell on that for fear of some terrible and as of yet unnecessary paranoia. With a wave in return he stepped out into the day, still clear but quite cold, then to his car where he grabbed his jacket, leather gloves and a single bible from the trunk. The library wasn’t too far a walk, nothing in the town really was, so he found himself pulling open the mahogany doors quickly.

Once inside, he only had a moment to be grateful for the warmth before he saw David look to him expectantly, so he stepped forward, rubbed his tired eyes, and pulled out the bible.

“Wow.” David took it from his hands, a little too excited, and inspected the cover. “What a beauty.”

It was indeed a beautiful book, and must have been especially so for a man who lived his life surrounded by and embedded in them. The cover was sky blue, the inlay gold thread with pearl and jet beaded into patterns of the sun, the moon, the clouds of heaven, the devil. David took a moment to admire it, then set it against a slanted piece of wood meant to display it right there at his front desk.

“Thank you.” He said. “I’m sure the patrons will enjoy it.”

“I hope they do.” Anthony responded. “Olivia in yet? I could use some caffeine.”

David nodded, and Anthony went on his way as he pulled out another book to read. He could tell that was the sort of man to grow on you if you weren’t careful enough, and he supposed he ought to avoid even further attachment, but still chuckled to himself when he recalled the elation on the other man’s face when he’d seen such a pretty book.

He quickly found himself in the back of the library, and saw Olivia heating a kettle when he stepped forward. She looked up and smiled at the familiar face, and waved for him to come closer.

“Good morning.” She sang out all cheery. “What can I get you?”

He could smell coffee, hot and rich, and though he would have loved that the sudden image of Ruth came to mind. She got a cut from her floral teas, so he had to do right by her.

“What have you got with a ton of caffeine and some flowers thrown in?” He asked, and Olivia grinned.

“I’ve got some leftover hibiscus black tea from the summer.” She offered. “It’s tart, I recommend it.”

“I’ll take it.” He said, then watched her grab a small tin, again topped with writing he didn’t understand. “What language is that?”

“Mandarin.” She answered, then went uncharacteristically silent. He understood her concern; he was a stranger after all, and these weren’t the safest things to discuss at times. He mercifully changed the subject.

“Is hibiscus the Hawaiian flower? The kind you always see a girl wear behind her ear in the travel ads?” He asked, and she smiled once more.

“That’s the one.” She pulled a tea cup and saucer from the shelf and held it up to him. There was a delicate pink flower painted on the side of the cup that he recognized from many a billboard – the Hawaiian islands were oft advertised in southern California. She set the cup back down and fiddled with the kettle.

“In the summer we don’t include the black tea, only the hibiscus. We cold brew it and serve it over ice with honey, and lemon if we’re lucky enough to find it.” She explained. “Have you ever had it?”

“No. Never been to Hawaii either.” Anthony admitted ruefully, and she smiled somewhat fondly.

“I’d love to go one day, I’m sure it’s beautiful.” She said. “Though I’m not a traveler such as yourself.”

The kettle began to whistle, and she poured his cup. She must have seen a hundred men like him breeze through the place, and a few more who’d intended to do so and never found the strength to leave again; hotel bellboys and librarians and the fathers of fishermen. A handsome chef in a little shack by the sea.

He took the tea gratefully and gave her a little nod before turning away to find himself a table and chair. Once he did, he grabbed Billy Bud off the shelf again and sat down. He stirred a spoonful of sugar into his tea, then brought it close and inhaled deeply. He’d never tasted hibiscus before, but the light and floral smell was subtle beneath the deep black tea, almost like citrus. He took a sip and felt a grin tug at the corner of his lips – it was different and delightful, something he’d experienced less and less of as time went on. Tart bordering on sour, with a taste reminiscent of a Thanksgiving cranberry sauce or the rhubarb from a strawberry pie he’d had a slice of somewhere in Alabama. Paired with the near bitter black tea, they held a fascinating balance of dark sharpness and feminine acidity that reminded him of a very grown-up version of mixing his lemonade into sweet tea as a child.

With a barely contained smile he took another sip, then set his cup onto his saucer to flip open his book and continue reading. He was on the very last chapter and in heaven as he sipped his tea and read on until a shadow settled over the page. When he looked up, a man smiled politely at him, and he did the same. He was a tall black man in a flannel and jeans, farmer’s garb, and he held a wide-brim in his worn and dirty hands.

“Morning, sir. Are you the bible salesman?” He asked, and Anthony nodded. “I saw the one you sold to David at the front, I thought it was gorgeous.”

“Thank you.” Anthony said pleasantly enough, and the other man continued.

“Well, I just wanted to pay you that compliment. I’m sure I won’t be the first to approach you today.” He said, and Anthony was glad for the successful intent. “And I was wondering if you had any others for sale.”

“I sure do.” Anthony said, and the man smiled wide.

“Great! I’ve been saving up and I think my brother Noah would love one.” He said, then looked a tad apprehensive. “Do you, uh, do you sell to –”

He vaguely waved a hand to himself, and Anthony caught his drift and stood quickly.

“Of course I do.” He said and clapped a hand on his shoulder. The man was reassured, and dug his hands in his pockets for a wallet. “I should warn you though, I sold to David at a reduced price, this being a library and all.”

“I understand entirely.” He pulled out a tattered old wallet. “How much, six?”

“Five sixty-five.” Anthony corrected as he pulled out some bills. “I sold to that waitress in the Italian place, Mari, if you need some confirmation of that.”

One thing he had to be certain of was not overcharging anyone; in a town this small they’d find out fast and gun for him in no time, and he was too smart to let a thing like that happen. The man gave him the money, and Anthony offered to walk down to his car and get the bible right at that moment, but he waved him off.

“Finish your book and your tea.” He said easily. “I trust you just fine. I’ll be around town all day, but later this afternoon I’ll be with the florist awhile. You know where that is?”

“Ruth Miller’s place, yessir.” Anthony said, and he grinned.

“You can meet me there later, if you’re able. I’m Keith, by the way.” He reached out his hand, and Anthony shook it.

“Anthony. I’ll see you then.” And the man went on his way.

He returned to his chair and finished his tea quickly before it could get cold, and finished his book soon after that. When he peered at his watch he found it was nearly noon, and though it was so early in the day he’d not eaten and was quite hungry. So it was time to complete his second important task of the day and visit his lovely new friends: Italian would be lovely for lunch.

He returned his cup and sugar pot to Olivia, who smiled when he complimented her brew, then left the library to the bright but frigid outdoors and made his way to his car. It was too soon to seek out Keith, so he turned on the engine and drove up to that little shack by the sea. When he arrived, it occurred to him that he hadn’t thought to see if the place was open so early – he only saw one car in the lot, a bedraggled old Plymouth that must have belonged to the chef. But he’d come this far and hoped that he would at least be turned away politely if he couldn’t get service.

When he stepped in, the place was chilly, and none of Mari’s candles were lit. The first thing he saw was the sea through the wide window, grey and rough but reflecting light to make the place plenty bright and cheery. Then he heard a light clink of change and turned to see Mari at the register.

“You open? I can come back later.” He said, but she waved him in immediately.

“We’re open, just no one’s here. Take a seat.” She said, and he sat right next to the register to speak to her properly. “How are you darling?”

“I’m well, thanks, how are you?” He asked, and heard the lightest movement and looked over to see the kitchen door open. Ian’s hair was slicked back, and over his white tee he donned an apron covered in flour. When he saw Anthony, he smiled, his eyes all lit up and welcoming.

“We’re doing just fine.” He said, and his tone warmed Anthony right up despite the chill. “I heard from Mari that you’re getting used to this ol’ town.”

“While I’m here.” Anthony grinned and hoped the man would come over to him and sit down, but he stayed standing.

“You hungry?” He asked, and Anthony nodded. Mari handed him a menu, and Ian took a step back. “I’ll come out in a moment, I have to finish making the noodles. I just popped out to say hello.”

“Alright.” Anthony said, a touch disappointed but still glad to hear he would return. Mari gave him an encouraging look at that, and he grinned a little and let her resume her work counting out bills as he looked over the menu. He’d eaten there several times and yet still hadn’t seen it – it contained no appetizers, as Ian was clearly a man for whole meals and not something small, a man for comforting and filling more so than just serving. There was a large section for pasta, one for steak and pork, another for poultry and seafood. He tore himself away from a dessert panel on the back where he’d read ‘Ricotta Cheesecake’ before he settled on his dish and looked up to Mari.

She felt his eyes on him, though he was trying to wait and let her finish her work before he bothered her. But she paused, noticed the glance and rather extravagantly pulled out her pen and pad. He chuckled as she gave him a sly grin.

“And what will the fine gentleman be having?” She asked, and he giggled a bit.

“The butternut squash lasagne, please.” He said, and she nodded, but didn’t write it down.

“Ian!” She yelled, and after a moment the partition behind her opened. Ian gave them both a knowing look and a falsely polite smile.

“Madam?” He asked lightly, and she bit her lip to fight a grin.

“The gentleman will be having the lasagne.” She said. Ian lit up.

“Excellent choice, monsieur.” He said to Anthony, then tipped an imaginary cap to Mari. “Garçon.”

“Garçon means boy. Mari is la serveuse.” Anthony called out, but he’d already ducked away, though the partition was left open.

“Waitress?” Mari asked as she took the menu away, and he nodded. “Look at you, Mr. Fancy with your french.”

“I only know the basics. Parlez vous anglais, baise-moi s’il te plaît, that sort of thing.” He admitted, and she smiled all the same.

“You’ve been to France?” She asked as she went back to work counting.

“Canada.” He lied easily. She didn’t need to associate him with Europe. “Lots of french speakers in Ontario.”

Ian’s head reappeared through the little window.

“Lasagne’s reheating in the oven. I’m almost done with this pasta, I’ll bring out the dish when I’m done.” He said to Mari. “Hungry? Need anything?”

“No. Either of you want a pot of coffee?” She asked, and they both shook their heads. “Then I’m fine, I’ll stay right here thank you.”

“Lazy.” Ian jokingly accosted her as he disappeared once more, and she smiled fondly to herself.

“Anything I can help you with? Candles, maybe?” Anthony asked, but she shook her head.

“Entertain me, that’s help enough. Meet anyone fun in town?”

“I don’t know about fun.” Anthony said thoughtfully. “I sold a bible to a fellow named Keith and mentioned your name.”

“He’s a sweetheart.” Mari said. “Farmer, you’re about to eat his squash. His brother’s a cutie, too.”

“A cutie?” Anthony laughed at the phrase, and Mari swatted him.

“He’s a kid. Nineteen. They’re not really brothers, either, but they were raised together so that’s what they call themselves.” She looked thoughtful. “Their parents were neighbors, but they all passed ages ago, so Keith took Noah in and merged the farms.”

“Family friends.” Anthony figured, but Mari pursed her lips.

“No, they were wary of each other. Keith’s parents came out here to leave sharecropping, Noah’s were – well, you know.” She looked uncertain again, and Anthony stepped in.

“Ignorant old white people.” He supplied, and heard Ian let out a bark of laughter from the kitchen. The look on Mari’s face changed instantly: the reserved uneasiness turned over to beaming trust in a heartbeat, something Anthony knew well. He could tell he had her friendship in the palm of his hand, that she’d be an easy target, but he moved the thought to the back of his mind. He had no reason and no want to harm her, but just the knowledge that he could readily do so cheered him in a way he knew the average man didn’t typically feel.

“Pretty accurate, yeah.” Mari smiled as the kitchen door opened. “But the boys are friends now, so that’s what matters.”

Ian stepped over with a plate, and Mari grabbed a stool and pulled it behind the bar so Ian could sit with him.

“Balsamic sage butternut squash lasagne.” Ian set the dish down before him. “Sorry it’s leftovers, I haven’t made a tray since dinner last night.”

But from the looks of it, Ian didn’t have to apologize for a thing. Lightly browned cheese oozed off the top of the steaming square of lasagne that had been finished with a ribbon of balsamic glaze that criss-crossed the plate. Inside he could see cubed squash, red onion, and a thick white sauce between layers of homemade lasagne sheets. The smell of sage radiated from the little serving that he suspected would be more than filling.

He grabbed his fork and had a large bite, and was hit with the strong acidity of the vinegar paired with the richness of the sauce and salty parmesan. The earthiness of the squash and assertive sweetness of the red onion only added to the hearty mix of flavors, with the warmth of the sage tying the whole dish together. Anthony groaned aloud, and Ian smiled bashfully.

“How do you even think of this stuff?” Anthony asked as he immediately went in for another bite, and Ian blushed a little.

“I love butternut squash and it’s readily available here, so I had to come up with a dish for it.” He said. “There’s already a soup on the menu, so that’s one hundred percent squash, but here it’s just one of the components.”

“And then there’s something in this grand speech about the heaviness of the béchamel sauce.” Mari added. “He was in heaven creating this one, when he added the red onion I think he nearly cried.”

“It’s not quite caramelized so the integrity remains.” Ian said with a little too much excitement, and Mari smiled as Anthony continued to dig in. He’d had Italian-American lasagne the last time he was in New York, with a red meat sauce and thick layers of ricotta. It was excellent, that was hard to deny, but this cheese-sauce laden dish with fresh, perfectly al dente pasta was far closer to the real thing.

“I saw sage on the menu and had to get it.” Anthony said. “The florist sold me a pocketful, I’ve been smelling it since yesterday.”

“I love sage.” Ian replied. “Cooking it in butter gives you this real heady aroma. Ruth grows it for us.”

“It must be nice to have fresh herbs.” Anthony said, though he barely knew how to cook eggs so he wasn’t sure exactly how so. “What do you do in the winter?”

“I dry all of our excess herbs the rest of the year.” Mari answered. “If it’s a really busy season I drive a few hours south to find a nursery.”

“Rough. You guys must miss L.A.” He said it without thinking, and Ian went pale as a sheet as the clattering of coins rang out. Pennies rolled all over the counter, and Mari stared at him in abject horror. He straightened up, alarmed by the sudden change, and Ian protectively moved closer to Mari.

“I’m sorry.” He blurted, and threw up his hands instinctively. “I didn’t mean –”

“How did you know?” Ian asked, and though Anthony was intimately familiar with a threatening tone, the fear beneath was clear as day and hurt him far worse than he thought it could.

“I’m sorry.” He repeated. “I’m not trying to threaten you or – or catch you?”

“Catch us?” Ian repeated, horrified, but Anthony winced and shook his head.

“No, I just – if you’re running from something, it’s not me. I just recognized the accent.” He said bashfully. Mari looked fearful still, and Ian looked stiff with uncertainty, though the want to believe him shone in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I grew up in Santa Barbara, it was just easy to spot.”

That was more information than he wanted to give, in truth, more than he was used to, but when Ian eased up he was glad he did. Mari seemed to relax a little as well, and began to pick up the pennies she’d spilled. Anthony reached over to help her, and she didn’t object.

“Sorry for getting so defensive, then.” She said quietly, and Anthony shook his head.

“You didn’t know, it’s alright doll.” He said, and she gave him a half grin.

“I didn’t realize it was so obvious.” Ian rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess for a local, though.”

“No one here could spot it, I’m sure.” Anthony quickly consoled him. “What’s the closest city, Eureka? They won’t know an L.A. accent. And you seem a private guy, I guarantee no one’s spotted it.”

“What about me?” Mari tried to hide her worry with a steady look as she picked up her final coin. “I’m about the town much more often.”

“You’re harder to tell, your parents must’ve had accents.” Anthony said, and when they both went rigid again, he handed her the pennies. “You’re both safe. And whatever’s wrong, whatever you’re running from, I’m not in the business of tattling.”

“We’re not criminals.” Ian looked cautiously to Mari, who nodded firmly. “Well . . . not anymore.”

Anthony perked up at that, and Ian looked away. Mari slipped the coins into the register, then closed the drawer. When she glanced up to him, there was no uncertainty, and he knew that was a product of the trust he’d created.

“You seem a good fellow. Like someone we could actually trust.” She said, and he nodded slowly, as false as that might have been. “So you should know that we’re married.”

He felt his eyes widen in surprise and his jaw drop, but he kept face and nodded quickly.

“Oh.” Was all he could get out. Ian kept his eyes on the floor, maybe afraid to see the reaction, but Mari was staring intensely, clearly preparing herself for a struggle. “Well, that’s alright. Nothing wrong with that.”

Mari let out a breath, and Ian finally looked up to him with an expression of absolute gratitude. Though he appreciated it, Anthony knew it wasn’t one he should have had to give.

“When did that become legal in this state?” He asked cautiously.

“‘48.” Ian answered softly. “But we found a very kind priest in ’42.”

“And that’s why you’re here.” Anthony finished. “I mean, I get it, you were lovebirds and it’s a shit law.”

Mari smiled and took the smallest step closer to her husband. It was obvious now that he really looked – he should have noticed it earlier, but he’d been more focused on liking Ian than figuring out who else did.

“Thank you.” She said kindly. “It’s nice to trust someone with this. Just don’t say a thing, alright sugar? No one knows.”

“Of course.” He said immediately. “I’ll keep it to myself. You’re a fine pair of people, I’m not aiming to hurt you.”

They both looked intensely relieved as Ian wordlessly cleared Anthony’s plate. Anthony paid for his meal and turned down the offer for dessert, too stuffed with lasagne to eat another bite. When Ian returned, he stood from his stool and shook the chef’s hand warmly. There was affection in Ian’s look, one that always came with a few good meals and a shared secret.

“Will you be back tomorrow?” He asked, and Anthony grinned.

“Of course. Now that I know I get to third wheel you two I’m looking forward to my lunch even more.” Anthony winked, and Mari laughed. He waved to the pair, and Ian slung his arm over his wife’s shoulder as he took his leave. Envy rose up as horribly and unexpectedly as bile, but he could only return to his car and start it up.

He returned to the town with a purposefully clear mind, with nothing on the radio but static. When he got back to the main road, he slowed until he spotted Ruth’s, then pulled over and popped his trunk. In the window he could see Keith and Ruth having a conversation, and grabbed a bible to take in. When the door opened with a bell’s jingle, both of them looked up and smiled in recognition.

“Hello, handsome.” Ruth grinned, and Keith laughed.

“I’m not calling him that.” He said, and Anthony smiled at the pair.

“I have your bible.” He stepped forward and held it out, and Keith accepted it readily and examined the cover.

“That’s a pretty thing.” Ruth commented. “If it’s a gift I bet it would go real well with a bouquet.”

Keith looked incredulous, and Anthony contained a laugh.

“I’m here to sell to you!” He exclaimed. “You’d think you’d just take the mini pumpkins without trying to make a sale.”

“What can I say, I’m a business woman.” She said, and Keith chuckled.

“Show me something cheap.” He replied with a roll of his eyes, and she gave him a wide grin.

“What about you, stranger, can I convince you to buy anything?” She asked, and Anthony politely shook his head.

“You already got me that pocket sniffer.” He said, and Keith roared with laughter.

“She got you, too?” He asked. “I reek of cinnamon because of this woman.”

“Oh, you love it.” She waved a hand and walked over to a vase full of daisies. Anthony took the sale as his cue to leave, and thanked Keith for his purchase once more before exiting.

The drive to the hotel was short, and when he parked and stepped out of his car the cold bit at his skin as he walked briskly inside. Matt was in his usual spot behind the receptionist’s desk, and Anthony gave him a friendly wave that was met with a formal nod. Some day he would stop and have an actual conversation with the man, but for now he had other things on his mind, and bounded up the stairs and into his room. Once inside, he closed the dark velvet curtains and noted that a distant town’s newspaper had been placed on his desk. It must have been a rare occurrence in this isolated little part of the world, but he decided he’d read it later. He had other things on his mind.

In the darkness, he shrugged off his blazer and undid his tie. As he unbuttoned his shirt, he thought back to his earlier conversation with the newfound couple – married eleven years, together for who knew how much longer. He should have realized, he knew, but he hadn’t been studying them as targets, merely making friends for the first time in years.

He laid his head back against the cold pillow and rested on top of the luxurious duvet to stare up at the ceiling. Ian had asked him if he’d return soon, that was what mattered. That it was the first time they’d initiated, not him. He slid down his trousers and briefs. Of course he would be back tomorrow, of course he wanted nothing more than to see them again, or one of them at least.

He reached down and stroked his cock, hardened immediately by the thought of that chef. Those beautiful blue eyes, so reserved but so begging for friendship, company, trust. He wanted something he couldn’t get from his wife, that was for sure, and Anthony could picture it easily; Ian’s pale hands roaming his body, his soft pink lips wrapped around his dick, a blush dusting his cheeks when he got the chance to satisfy.

“Ian.” Anthony closed his eyes and pumped himself as he thought of the other man, the one he’d grown far too attached to in such a small amount of time. He’d done this before, he’d fucked plenty of men, but there was something about that quiet, humble fellow that was driving him wild. There was an image he couldn’t get out of his head of Ian waiting for his wife to fall asleep before pulling out his own cock and jerking off with Anthony’s name on his lips.

He groaned and sped up, with one hand clutching the comforter as the other moved up and down a cock slick with precum. It didn’t take long for him to picture Ian saying his name again, to think of him gasp as an orgasm rocked through him, as he went flush with pleasure a foot from his wife. Anthony groaned himself, shuddered, and spilled his seed all over his hand and underwear, then took a few heavy breaths.

It was just a fantasy, he knew, likely untrue, but still it fueled him. He wanted that man, and by all means he intended to have him. Have him or wait for these emotions to peter out and leave this town and that shack by the sea behind.

 

* * *

 

The next morning was several degrees colder than it had been previously, and Anthony found himself quite lethargic. He had nothing to do that day and no desire to find a goal, more content to stay in the warmth of his bed. He managed to get to the desk, grab the newspaper, and slip back beneath the covers to absorb the words in dark silence. They’d awarded a Nobel Prize in physics, and Cambodia won its independence from France, he was happy to see. For an hour he read and did the crossword until finally he got up with a stretch, collected a navy suit and went off to the showers.

Again, he was alone and saw no one, and did not hear the rattle of water through the pipes, but he knew he’d see whomever else resided in that hotel eventually, even if it was just one person. He cleaned up slowly, in no rush, but when he got out found the day still quite young and he still quite unoccupied. He should have waited – gone to the library or walked about town – but it was cold and he was hungry and there was a handsome man with a large plate of food that he had a hankering to visit.

He bundled up to get to his car, a smart choice as the wind nipped at his exposed face. With a shiver he got behind the wheel and started her up with thick-gloved hands. The drive felt longer than usual; he wasn’t terribly nervous, but he’d never dropped pretenses so much as to just show up before lunch, just to see them as opposed to having a meal. When he approached the shack he spotted a familiar figure just out front having a smoke, just like the day he’d met him. He smiled to himself and stopped to roll down his window.

“Am I too early? Surely you’re not open if you’re having a cigarette break.” He said, and Ian gave him a shy half-grin.

“You’re fine, come on in.” He called back, but Anthony frowned a little.

“Are you sure? I can come back later.” He offered, but Ian gave him a flat look and shook his head.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Park that jalopy and get over here.”

“Jalopy? You’re in for it!” Anthony said, but Ian only chuckled as he pulled away and into the lot. The Plymouth that had always been there before was missing, its usual spot vacant, and Anthony sucked in a breath. If that was Mari’s car, she was out and he had Ian all to himself.

He walked up to the front with his hands in his pockets. When Ian spotted him he tossed his cigarette and squashed it with the sole of his boot – he hadn’t been quite finished with it and seemed to only be heading in for his cold new friend’s sake, which already warmed Anthony to think of. 

“I’m going to make you eat that for insulting my precious Victoria.” He said, and Ian gave a skeptical chuckle. They stepped inside together, where the light shone in bright enough through the windows but the temperature was not too affected. Ian slipped off his large black coat to reveal a flannel beneath, rolled up to the elbows, and Anthony reluctantly did the same, though only to be polite.

“Where’s Mari?” He asked conversationally.

“She left a short while ago for candle wax.” Ian responded, and Anthony felt a small thrill from it.

“Damn, I would’ve said hello if I’d spotted her car in town.” He replied, and drew his arms around himself. Ian nodded sagely.

“Come on, it’s about thirty degrees warmer in the kitchen.” He said, and smirked a little at Anthony’s sigh of relief. He followed him into the kitchen where he’d already had a night’s sleep, though last time he didn’t see the chef’s work in full. He was preparing for the day, with every surface covered in some form of food. He spotted a cutting board covered in diced squash and apples, bowls of ricotta and mascarpone, trays of bread dough rising. The stove was covered in saucepans, all filled with simmering liquids, and the room smelled strongly of garlic and basil from whatever was cooking in the oven.

“Sorry it’s a bit of a mess, I’m getting ready for dinner.” Ian said, and brushed past him to turn off a burner. Anthony could only voice his awe.

“This place looks like a crime scene in the best sort of ways.” Anthony said, and shrugged when Ian gave him an odd look. “Mess and mayhem and a look inside something you never thought you’d see.”

Ian only chuckled and shook his head. “You wanna help?”

“Lord no, I’d poison all your customers.” Anthony said. “I couldn’t cook oats for meal.”

Ian laughed and stepped over to him, then put a hand on the crook of his arm. The warmth of the other man’s hand was electric as he led him over to a long counter and a big old machine with a crank on it.

“Look, you don’t have to cook a thing.” He pointed to the machine. “This is the pasta shaper. I’ll make the dough and feed it through the top and you can crank out the noodles.”

“Wow, I didn’t know that was how it worked.” Anthony admitted, then looked down. “Reckon I should take off my tie so I don’t get dragged in.”

“Very good idea.” Ian said, and reached beneath the counter as Anthony loosened and removed his tie. He tossed it through the window and next to his coat and turned to examine Ian’s work; he’d brought up three bags of flour and was pouring the first into a large bowl, seemingly measuring by eye.

“It smells so good in here, it’s making me damn hungry.” Anthony said, and Ian smiled as he poured the next bag. “What do a chef and a pretty waitress eat for breakfast?”

“Spaghetti.” Ian said as he reached for the third bag and Anthony burst into laughter. “I’m not joking! Leftovers are man’s best friend.”

“Figures.” Anthony said as Ian set down the bag and reached across the counter for an egg. “I don’t know how your stomach isn’t roaring right now.”

Ian cracked the egg and grinned.

“You really hungry? I should show you what we do with that spaghetti, hold on.” He cracked another few eggs in, then pushed the bowl towards Anthony. “Knead this.”

“Knead it?” Anthony asked incredulously, but Ian was already rushing to the fridge. 

He was in his element and it showed. To see such a passion in someone so lovely made Anthony’s face feel warm as he obediently rolled up his sleeves. Ian pulled out a bowl and pulled off the tin foil, then grabbed a block of cheese and a grater, and Anthony could only smile to himself and dunk his hands into the eggs and flour. It was satisfying in that gross little way, with that grainy flour mixed with the slime of egg. He mushed it all together as over at his own bowl Ian threw in salt, pepper, and breadcrumbs that Anthony could only assume were scratch-made. He rushed over to where Anthony stood to grab two eggs, and paused to eye his work.

“Good, keep going. Make sure it’s blended evenly.” He clapped him on the back and went back to his end of the kitchen, and Anthony felt himself flush, as small as the compliment was.

He cracked the eggs into his bowl and grabbed a pair of tongs to toss the mixture with quick precision. Anthony watched him dump it all into the frying pan – it was leftover spaghetti alright, covered in tomato sauce and sizzling away.

“The sauce gets soaked up into the noodles overnight. Not the most appetizing.” Ian caught his glance as he placed the bowl and tongs into the sink. “But with the breadcrumbs and eggs as binder we turn the whole thing into a fritter.”

“It doesn’t look like a fritter.” Anthony was thinking of an apple pastry he’d had somewhere in New England, but Ian must have known what he meant.

“A fritter is anything covered in batter and fried, but sometimes it just means something like a patty of junk.” He stepped over and looked at Anthony’s dough. “That’s perfect! Like a crab cake.”

“This dough looks nothing like a crab cake!” Anthony said, and Ian gave him a faux dirty look as he sprinkled flour onto the counter.

“Throw the dough right here, jackass.” He said, and when Anthony did so he sprinkled a liberal amount of flour on top. “Okay, squish this down a little and then you can wash your hands.”

“Am I going back to crank duty?” Anthony asked with a grin as Ian dusted off his hands.

“After I’ve stuffed you with food.” He replied, for which Anthony was unspeakably grateful. He stepped over to the frying pan, lifted it, and flipped its contents like a pancake, then grabbed two plates.

“Showoff.” Anthony teased, and Ian smiled as he left the kitchen, then returned a moment later with a pair of cutlery. Anthony washed his hands then, a thick coating of dough stuck to his skin that didn’t come off without a heavy dousing of soap and an aggressive bit of scrubbing. By the time his hands were dry, Ian was sliding the spaghetti fritter onto a plate and cutting it in half. When Anthony came closer for further inspection, Ian raised his hands.

“Wait! Presentation!” He said, and Anthony rolled his eyes as he grated parmesan over the two plates, though he absolutely brimmed with affection. He tossed on a bit of chopped parsley and gave a flourish of his hand.

“This looks so good.” Anthony said, and grabbed his fork and knife. When he sliced into it, the exterior let out a resounding crunch and the inside steamed, a tight mass of pasta and tomato sauce. He gathered up a large bite with a bit of melted cheese and took a bite; it was delightfully crispy on the outside and still warm, delicious, classic spaghetti on the inside.

“It’s certainly not the traditional Italian I’ve been feeding you.” Ian said as he ate from his own dish. “But there’s a beautiful simplicity in it.”

“It’s good. Everything you make is good.” Anthony said, and Ian blushed a little as they continued to eat just standing in the kitchen. “How did you learn?”

Ian looked suddenly hesitant as his eyes darted quickly down to his plate. Anthony knew it was pushing, but he decided to risk it and reach out his hand. He rested it on the other man’s forearm, and when their eyes met he gave him a reassuring look.

“I – I was a line cook in Los Angeles.” He managed, then looked away once more. “Mari was a waitress.”

“And she was as impressed as I am now.” Anthony pieced together, but Ian snorted.

“I was a natural at it, I admit, but not like – well, like this.” He gestured around the kitchen. “No, she thought I was cute, I thought the same of her, we got along.”

“That’s wonderful. And you’ve been together what, eleven years?” Anthony asked, and Ian nodded. “Wow. And no kids?”

“No.” Ian glanced back to his plate, his tone strained. Anthony knew it was the wrong thing to say. “No kids.”

“Well you’re a beautiful couple.” Anthony said quickly to move off the subject. Ian gave the smallest smile at the compliment and looked back to him. “Really. Those eyes . . .”

He trailed off, and Ian’s eyes flitted down to Anthony’s hand on his arm so quickly he could have imagined it. But he stayed silent, his expression clouded with a clearly purposeful veil, his true thoughts – whatever they were, whatever he felt for this mysterious new stranger – well hidden. Emboldened by something, maybe the heat of the room or the man he was touching, Anthony took a step closer, so close he could have drowned in that beautiful blue.

“You know.” He whispered, and face to face Ian could hear him perfectly. “You know what I am and what I want.”

And he kissed the chef, hard. He wasn’t sure what would happen, if he would be pushed off, screamed at, threatened. But suddenly a strong pair of hands were grabbing him by the arms and pulling him close, and he could’ve cried out to God in thanks as Ian squeezed him into a tight hug and returned the kiss. For the first time in ages he felt like he was finally in the right place.

Ian broke the kiss and pulled away with a hazy, wanton expression, and Anthony had an instinctive urge in terms of what to do next. He pressed his lips against Ian’s once more, then shoved him against the counter. Ian made the smallest sound against his mouth, a little gasp of surprise, and Anthony felt his cock stir in his jeans as he moved down to ravage his neck. He peppered it with nips and kisses, and Ian still held him tight and let out a few heavy breaths.

Anthony pushed himself closer, his dick pressed to Ian’s thigh, and he felt a hardness through Ian’s jeans against his own leg. He reached down and grabbed at it firmly, and Ian jumped a little with yet another gasp, then clung on to his arms even tighter. Anthony took it as a good sign and stopped working on his neck to drop to his knees.

In a heartbeat he was undoing Ian’s belt with steady fingers, then his button and zipper. He pulled down his jeans and briefs in one fell swoop, and when he saw the other man’s cock so hard for him he felt a strain in his own trousers. He reached out and ran a hand along the shaft – it was a good size and thick, everything Anthony wanted, and Ian let out the smallest of moans when he began to stroke it.

“Wait.” Ian said above him, his voice choked up, and Anthony looked up at him. His cheeked were bright red with a blush, and he nearly looked teary eyed, the obvious desire in his eyes mixed with some kind of reluctance. “I’m married.”

He was, to a wonderful woman that Anthony had grown to like very much and really consider a friend. But he knew exactly what he wanted and what he was willing to do to get it.

“I don’t care.” He answered simply, and took Ian in his mouth. He groaned as Anthony sank his lips down to the base, then went right back to the tip. He bobbed up and down on it quickly, almost aggressively, and Ian moaned appreciatively. He felt the other man’s fingers running through his hair, his hands shaky as they gripped him lightly. 

Anthony continued to suck as he reached down and stroked his balls lightly, and Ian groaned loudly and seized his hair tight. Anthony knowingly stopped moving his head a moment, and Ian thrusted against him, finally in control as he no doubt got something he’d been craving since he first laid eyes on the other man. Anthony thought he would explode in his pants as Ian thrusted erratically against him; every time he felt his lips touch the base of his cock Ian let out a loud moan, nearly animalistic in pleasure.

He could tell he wasn’t going to last long, so he reached up and gripped him by the hips and forced him again back against the counter to regain control. He bobbed his head once more, and Ian shuddered.

“Fuck, Anthony.” He said, his voice a little louder than usual, his tone desperate. “Anthony, Jesus!”

He sucked him off quickly, greedily as he knew what was about to happen. He felt Ian’s hand move down to his shoulder and his fingers cling to his lapel as above him the man whined in pleasure. Then Ian grabbed him so hard it nearly hurt, let out a strangled cry, and it was all over. 

Anthony swallowed easily and pulled away, then looked up to try and read Ian’s expression. He was looking away, his face all pink from the exertion. Anthony was considering what to do next, if he should maybe ask for the same treatment, but then he spotted a tear fall down Ian’s cheek. When he looked down at him, still knelt on the ground, his eyes were red and puffy.

“You have to leave.” He said, and Anthony felt his heart drop into his gut. For a moment, he was still and stiff with unpleasant surprise until Ian spoke again. “I’m married.”

“It’s alright, sweetheart.” Anthony got to his feet with hopes that that was what the other man needed to hear, his jeans still tented. He took a step closer, but Ian turned his head. “Hey, it’s alright. I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“Get out!” Ian spat, and Anthony jumped at the unexpected outburst. “I said I’m married, now get the hell out!”

And in the chaos of the aftermath there was nothing more he could do, nothing else he could say to erase what they had just done. So he drew a heavy breath, lifted his chin in a false show of dignity and left the kitchen, then grabbed his coat and tie and whisked off without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so obviously irl Anthony and Ian aren't from la and santa barbara but it's an au so i feel like it's okay to fudge the details a little bit. anyway let me know if you enjoyed, tell me your favorite part so far!


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning was even colder than the last. Winter was settling in quickly, and Anthony knew there would be no warmth for him whether he stayed in town or continued on his journey north. He stayed abed for a long while after he awoke, uncertain and uncharacteristically distracted.

When he’d returned to the hotel the previous day, he spent the rest of it hidden in his room, either in bed or carefully watching the window. He couldn’t definitively feel that the townspeople wouldn’t form a mob, and he glanced through those dark curtains often in attempt to catch a glimpse of any rowdiness. As much as he wanted to tell himself that Ian would keep their relations a secret, he was in the right spot to reveal it without being attacked – Anthony disregarded his marriage, after all, the other man could easily claim he was coerced into it to save himself any ire from the bigots he had the potential to set upon that old hotel.

But no one came for him, just as sleep barely did, and by morning Anthony decided he was probably safe. Safe, maybe, but not thrilled with the situation: he hadn’t expected the rejection, and now he didn’t know how much Mari was aware of, if he was allowed to return to that little restaurant, if he ought to just leave before this got any more dangerous. There were too many variables, and with all his experience he knew the safest bet would be to just move on, and yet every time he closed his eyes he saw the look on Ian’s face after he kissed him, all heat and desire. He could still feel the way he’d tugged his hair, the little pull of attraction when he’d grabbed onto his lapel.

And the bitterness, he felt that too. He didn’t know why he’d felt so certain of things, why he’d gotten so daring, why the shock still left a burnt taste in his mouth. When he kissed him he half expected to be attacked – but when he blew him he’d thought it was a submission to yearning. Maybe it wasn’t, then, maybe it was just a confused man making a mistake with a beautiful stranger.

That didn’t really help his mood, though, so he sought distraction instead. It was already the middle of the day by the time he found the courage to get up and shower, maybe convinced the routine of it would do him some good as he had, after all, so little of that in life. The bathrooms were empty and the water was hot, just as usual, and he felt some tepid relief in that steamy room. When he dressed, he went less formal than he’d had in a long time; presentation was everything, that was his life-long lesson, but today it seemed he was presenting to no one but himself. He donned black trousers and shining dress shoes as per usual, then a white button-down sans his thin black tie with a wooly red cardigan over it. His hair made the independent decision to be entirely unkempt, and he allowed it without a fuss, all curls and tangles as he returned to his room to deposit his laundry.

Boredom set upon him, but he didn’t have the nerve to go into town just yet, and so made the decision that it was time to explore the lodging he was so quickly settling into. He walked down to the lobby slowly enough to admire the ornate carvings of the banister and notice the small puff of dust that rose from the deep red carpeting with every step he took. Once there he spotted Matt, astute as usual, and gave him a friendly wave.

“Afternoon.” He approached the fellow, who seemed a bit trapped behind the reception desk. He nodded crisply in return. “How are you?”

“I’m fine sir, and yourself?” He spoke formally, and looked a bit glazed over when Anthony set his elbow against the counter and leaned over to him.

“I’m a bit bored, in truth. Was wondering about this ol’ place.” He smiled warmly, though Matt didn’t react. “Whatcha got in here, a parlor? A bar?”

“The bar isn’t open yet, sir.” He gave Anthony a wary look – he must have seen quite a few drunks pass through the place in his day. “There are cigars available in the parlor room, if you please.”

“I’m not really a man for cigars.” Anthony said, then had a thought. “Say, that paper you left for me the other day, where’d it come from?”

“Eureka, sir, it’s about an hour north. This time of year, I mean – the weather will grow heinous soon, and then there’s no leaving this town ‘til spring.” He said, and Anthony felt a small jolt at the thought. It was a gentle way to say they’d all be trapped together, and for someone with a secret that wasn’t such a pleasant idea. He hastily moved on.

“But why’d I get it? Did you travel out there to get some papers?” He asked, and Matt shook his head.

“No sir, a hotel has a great deal of business that needs tending to. Food for room service, liquor for the bar, office supplies. Sometimes one needs to gather products and materials, so when one travels into the city they return with a boon or two.” He said, though his tone was strained. He never said he was the one taking care of the business either, so Anthony had to assume that was information he didn’t want to divulge. A boon, what an odd term to use – odd enough to imply there was greater meaning behind those words. But he didn’t want to seem as though he was digging, so he held onto what he’d learned and instead focused on a lesser portion of the conversation.

“Well shit, I didn’t know this place had room service.” He said with a chuckle, and Matt looked the slightest bit more at ease. “I just came down here to look around, see what I’m missing.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed you haven’t been around.” He replied, his tone ever haughty. “Gone to eat at the Italian restaurant for a few days, now.”

Anthony didn’t allow himself to stumble as he put on a charming grin.

“I’m a sucker for good Italian.” He admitted. “But room service would be a pleasant change.”

“Let me procure a menu for you, sir.” He rifled through some papers on a shelf beneath the desk and handed Anthony a menu not unlike the one Mari had offered the other day, a single sheet of paper in a black leather cover. The fare was typical, and Anthony imagined it was quite mediocre – scrambled eggs, a turkey club, meatloaf. It was funny how quickly he’d gotten used to the chef’s food. “Leave it in the mail slot outside your room during the mealtimes listed and we’ll deliver.”

“Well I thank you kindly.” He took it with a nod. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

Matt managed the most manufactured polite chuckle of all time, and Anthony left without taking offense. He was an austere man, but Anthony wasn’t about to stop being kind or charming to him, lest the fellow grow suspicious. It seemed he was already, with that Italian remark, but maybe that was just some of Anthony’s old paranoia surfacing.

He walked away, towards the stairs, but didn’t climb them and instead strolled past to admire the fountain. The marble was lovely, the angels carved into it cherubic, and the golden tile shone brilliantly. It all had an old-world feel, the sense of a bygone era, and Anthony was still unsure where it sat on the line between captivating and haunting.

Past the fountain he found a small bar, and walked inside brimmed with curiosity. There were small round tables all about, dark wood with simple chairs to accompany them, and the bar matched that dark mahogany with stools padded in more dark red velvet. Behind it sat shelves loaded with alcohol, some of the bottles dusty and half empty, others shiny and unopened: this must have been what that aforementioned supplies run had been for. The small room was empty and the bar unmanned just as Matt had promised, so Anthony continued on through a set of french doors to his left.

Next it was a smoking room, another small room filled with lush leather sofas and chairs backed in velvet. The room itself was dark, the walls painted deep red with an ornate red and gold oriental rug on the ground. The fireplace was unlit, and above it sat a mounted stag’s head that stared Anthony down with beaded eyes. On the coffee table there were several boxes of cigars of seemingly high quality, and Anthony made a note to himself to swipe them if he ever needed to get out of town quickly.

He exited the room, returned to the bar, then ended up in a narrow hallway that headed right, beneath the stairs. He followed along until the hallway opened up to another lobby of sorts, with five mahogany doors presented to him. The place was still and silent, only lit by a few brass sconces on the walls, with a dark red runner to cover the wooden floors. When Anthony stepped forward, the wood creaked, and he realized his breath had caught slightly in his throat. He chose the second door, strode over bravely, and wondered if he ought to knock – but it was so quiet he doubted anyone was in there, and swung the heavy door open.

He was met with instant disappointment – it was a conference room, with a long table and several old wooden office chairs crowded around it. He wasn’t sure what he expected, it was a hotel after all, and closed the door quietly. He moved to the first with far less bravado and noted the word ‘EXIT’ depicted in small brass letters on it, which worried him a moment. He didn’t want an alarm to trigger if he opened the door, but when he looked around he couldn’t see any wiring and decided to risk it. When the door opened, he was quickly grateful for the silence, though the blast of wind wasn’t so pleasant. It was freezing out, and he shoved the hand that didn’t hold the menu into a pocket as he stepped out to look at the new space he’d found. A courtyard met his eye, with a brick patio and a view of the rest of the town before he could spot the distant ocean. It faced the same direction as his room, and would be a lovely place in the summer with a few lawn chairs and some sunshine. There was a trellis that had once been covered in vines, though they were crisp and black with death now, and plants surrounding the patio that had died from the cold and been neatly cut back.

Other than that, there was nothing more, though Anthony saw marks on the ground from where outdoor furniture had once been and knew if he’d come another time he would have enjoyed this place. He gave up and went inside, then decided the other doors would be nothing of interest and headed back down the hallway. His intention was to return to his room, but when he walked past the bar he found it no longer empty – the bartender was wiping down the counter, and Anthony stepped in curiously. When the other man noticed him come forward, he gave him a nod.

“Afternoon, sir. What’ll it be?” He asked. He was a tall black man in a pair of glasses and an impeccable black suit that matched the clerk’s, undoubtedly the hotel’s uniform.

“You’re open for business?” Anthony asked in return, and when he nodded again he hesitated. “Feels a bit early.”

“I can do non-alcoholic. How do you feel about cranberry?” He asked, and Anthony shrugged. He might as well have a treat, he hadn’t actually eaten that day and he could at least have some form of company today. He nodded and pulled up a stool, and the bartender took out a tall glass from beneath the bar. “Name’s Amra, by the way.”

“Anthony.” He replied. “You get a lot of patrons here?”

“We get the occasional fellow coming in every once in awhile, though they very often like to imbibe.” He grabbed some ice and a bottle of ginger ale from a cooler Anthony couldn’t see below the bar. “So usually it’s quiet, it’s just a little more so lately because of the weather. When there’s so many storms way fewer people have the nerve to pass through.”

“The weather was why I had to stop.” Anthony said, though didn’t mention why he chose to stay. “And now it’s dreadfully cold.”

“I hear ya.” He poured the ginger ale over ice and threw it back in the fridge, then returned with two bottles, cranberry and apple juice. “It’s foul, I’m glad I don’t commute.”

“The employees live here?” Anthony asked thoughtfully. “I guess that’s who I hear in the showers.”

“Good thing we keep clean.” He stirred everything together and handed him the glass, though Anthony got the feeling he was being intentionally quiet about something. “What do you do, sir?”

“I’m a bible salesman.” Anthony answered, then took a sip of the drink. It was tart and sweet and reminded him of that hibiscus tea he’d had at the library the previous day but with a distinct autumn flavor. Tasty, but he wished he’d asked for something warm. “I was actually wondering if the owner of this establishment was around, I’d love to maybe sell them one for their parlor.”

Amra looked uncomfortable, and Anthony stared him down a moment without any desire to comfort. Surely the bartender didn’t have much power, but he would be easier to shake down for answers than the closed-book receptionist. After a moment when it appeared he would give no reply, Anthony smiled with a feigned warmth.

“This is great, by the way.” He said, and Amra nodded slowly and began to wipe down the counter once more.

“Thanks. Always fun to make a drink.” He smiled politely, though said nothing more.

“How long have ya worked here? Are you from this town?” He prompted, and Amra nodded once more.

“Yes, my ancestors bought their freedom during the gold rush. I’ve worked here since I was old enough to man bar, and my father did so before me.” He answered, and Anthony gave him a look of interest. “Bartending’s in my blood.”

“You’re suited to it.” He said. “And you’re easier to talk to than that fellow at the front desk.”

Amra laughed aloud, and Anthony smiled a bit.

“Don’t let Sohinki get to you. He warms up after a very, very, very long time. A professional through and through, that’s all he is.” Amra chuckled to himself. “Why get close to passerby, after all?”

“He must have been born and raised here.” Anthony said, mostly to himself, but Amra answered.

“Of course. Everyone who works in this hotel is from here.” He said, then looked thoughtful and returned to wiping down the counter without another word.

Anthony chose to finish his drink in silence after that, though he had a lot to think about. Why everyone who worked in the hotel would be someone born and raised in the town was a curious question, and its answer seemed steeped in distrust of outsiders and some form of paranoia that Anthony was all too familiar with. There were more questions to be had, more answers to be given, but that was all in due time, and he was again a bit on edge as he considered how much time he had there. Hopefully, all would be well and Ian wouldn’t say a word against him.

He departed after his drink was finished, quite cold, and chose to return to his room. He waved again to Matt as he walked past, who nodded curtly in return, and wondered how friendly the gentleman was with the bartender. It was hard to imagine them as cordial, but if there was some sort of shared secret about this place between them, well, that could affect everything. It would be wise for him to watch them closer. 

When he climbed the stairs and arrived back into the hotel room, he went to the desk, pulled out a pen and opened up the menu. After his eyes traveled through the ‘Entree’ section, he circled the pot roast with potatoes, celery and carrots and threw it in the brass holder beside the door. Next he ceremonially kicked off his shoes and curled back into bed to warm up, where he stayed for a long while. A stretch of time was dedicated to general groaning and shivering, and once he warmed up he had a marathon of staring aimlessly at the ceiling.

He grew bored after that and pulled down his trousers for some entertainment, his hands cold but his mind willing. He tried to conjure up a few images of Ian and their previous day together, though not of the rejection that came so swiftly afterwards. Unfortunately he was unsuccessful in not thinking of it, and though he pumped his cock relentlessly it failed to respond. He was too tense, too dejected, so he gave up on the endeavor, turned onto his side, and took a nap instead.

It was dark when he woke up later, though at first he didn’t know why. He peered around the room a minute, bleary, until a knock sounded against his door once again. At that he stretched, mentally willed himself away from the warm bed, and shuffled over to the door. When he opened it, whoever had been there had already vanished, but on the ground rested a silver tray and a cloche, and he knew it to be his dinner. He picked it up and carried it inside, then rested it carefully on the edge of the bed, as the writing desk was slanted and didn’t allow a tray, a huge fault in the room’s design. 

He lifted the cloche to find a large bowl of stew with a piece of bread on a small plate beside it. There was a fork, knife and spoon wrapped in a fine linen napkin, and he unfurled it to see they were high quality and heavy. With the napkin set aside, he grabbed the fork and sampled the stew, still piping hot; the meat was tough, but he liked the vegetables. The sauce had an artificial sort of taste that he actually quite enjoyed, maybe due to nostalgia or the comfort of preservative-leaning American cuisine. He tried the bread and deemed it acceptable, if a bit stale. All in all, a decent meal, far more so than he usually had on the road but far below what he’d been having at the Italian shack.

He supped in silence, though he mostly ignored the roast itself and ate the bread and vegetables. He feasted until he was full and then had a bit more, and when he was properly stuffed he set the utensils into the bowl, wiped his mouth with the napkin and placed the cloche back over the whole thing. Then he set it out into the hallway, somehow certain that it would disappear quickly. A small part of him wanted to stand by the door the next few hours and wait for a footfall to discover just who was cleaning up after him, but now he was so tired and glutted that he decided to pass. Warm and satiated, he turned off the light and crawled back into bed and dozed off once more. When his tray was removed from the hall, he was too far gone to hear it.

This morning was just as cold as the last. Anthony felt clear and relaxed when he awoke, very thoroughly rested, but he wondered if he could ask Matt about an extra blanket. He had fallen asleep in his thick cardigan and even that hadn’t kept him warm. He stood up and went to the window – because he’d gone to sleep so early he’d woken up early, too, and the sun was only just rising on the other side of the building. The ocean was still a dark abyss, the houses around him still shuttered. He was used to being up this early to avoid traffic, but usually he was on the highway with some shitty coffee in his gut, not looking over a cozy little town in the middle of nowhere, and it was surprisingly calming to view the horizon in stillness rather than out his rearview mirror.

He immediately recalled his situation with Ian and felt his ease fade slightly. The desire to hunker down was beginning to call to him, but he wasn’t about to stay if he didn’t have anyone to stay for. It was already a bad idea, he was messing with something he shouldn’t be, but that was a moot point this late in the game. For now the question was still of his safety, and then of what he should do about his new friend.

A shower seemed to be the best remedy to all this early-morning brooding, so he rather leisurely collected his things with the decision to wear his black suit again – he aimed to walk around town once more and wanted to keep up with aesthetics. Then he headed down the hall to the powder room with either a hope or fear of seeing someone else at such a different time of day. Whatever he wanted though, his anticipation was slashed when he swung open the heavy door and found the room as remarkably empty as usual.

But the pipes rattled, so somewhere else in the building Matt, Amra or a mysterious other party was doing just as he was, stripping down and getting clean. He held that thought in his mind, an analytical observation, as he blasted the hot water and soaked himself thoroughly. Afterwards he gelled and combed back his hair to combat errant curls and made sure his suit was pristine.

When he returned to his room and glanced out the window he found that it was properly morning now, not so early as he was alone witnessing the world. In the distance, a barge was leaving the docks, and he wondered if that was a sign to the fisherman’s wives that the day had begun then decided to take it as one himself. He wrapped himself tightly in his long jacket and pulled on a pair of black gloves, then decided to seek caffeine and entertainment in the library.

He took to the stairs as usual, now quite familiar with the terrain, and waved to Matt at the reception desk. His hair was perfectly dry, and it seemed that he got up far earlier than everyone else to bathe, ever the professional. Anthony approached quick enough to catch Matt’s expression, mildly disgruntled at the disturbance, and had to hold back a little giggle. Though no attempts to torture the man were being made he couldn’t help but enjoy the suffering.

“Morning, Matt.” Anthony grinned.

“Good morning, sir.” He allowed.

“Listen, I was wondering if I could request an extra blanket or something tonight. It’s mighty cold.” He asked, and Matt nodded.

“I’ll turn up the heating on your floor.” He said, and Anthony felt immediately thankful. “You must be unused to the cold.”

“It’s true, I’ve been traveling along the southern border this past year to sell my bibles.” Anthony replied, and tried to gauge the other man’s interest in them. Matt looked entirely unfazed.

“Well the room will be warmer this evening, sir. To accommodate your southern inclinations.” He tipped his head, and Anthony sensed that the conversation was over and didn’t push it. So he thanked the man pleasantly and took his leave.

A gust of wind hit him sharply as he exited, and though he was bundled up tight he was still quaking in his shoes within a minute. He hugged himself tightly on the way to the library and cursed himself for not owning a scarf. In the two or three minutes it took to get to that old brick building his nose was all red – he could’ve cried with joy when he spotted David opening the door.

“Morning.” Anthony called out to the other man, who was similarly huddled within a few thick layers of his own. “You just opening?”

“Olivia’s already in.” David answered, and held open the door for him. Anthony rushed in, instantly grateful for the rush of warmth that hit him. David followed and rubbed his hands.

“I’m going to run to her for a cup of tea.” Anthony said amiably, and David gave him a wry grin. 

“Given how often I’m sucking down her coffee, so am I.” He said. “Walk with me.”

Anthony nodded, and the pair walked pleasantly towards the back of the library. David was a quiet man, which sorely reminded him of Ian, though he seemed more stoic, with a hint of insanity in the form of chaos just beneath the mask. His love for reading appeared to make him an internal adventurer of sorts, present but eternally distracted.

“What are you reading right now?” Anthony asked conversationally, and David shrugged.

“I’m rereading The Hobbit for the umpteenth time.” He answered. “I was going to go through that bible of yours, take some notes and maybe do some kind of research project for the hell of it, but the patrons have been looking at it and I didn’t want to take it away from anyone.”

“As a librarian is wont to do.” Anthony complimented conversationally, though he was secretly quite pleased at the attention the bible brought. He wasn’t short on money yet, but a couple extra bills were always appreciated and if he could get a few more buyers out of that one book he’d feel real damn accomplished.

They arrived at Olivia’s nook to find her pushing around the tins on her shelf, getting organized as a kettle began to steam. When she heard their footfall, she turned and smiled at them both.

“Morning, darlin’s.” She greeted them. “My two favorite boys, the old and the new. What can I get you?”

“Your very favorite will take a strong coffee.” David said with a roll of his eyes as Anthony felt a genuine grin bubble to his lips. “What’ll you be having, second favorite?”

“I think I’ll take the same.” He said, in want of the energy after a very lazy day. “As the inferior favorite.”

Olivia laughed and grabbed a small burlap sack, then reached inside and grabbed a handful of coffee beans that Anthony could smell five feet away. She poured them into a small box on top of her little table and began to turn a lever that sat atop it to grind them.

“What book are you working on, then?” David asked, and now was Anthony’s turn to shrug.

“I’m in-between. I’ll be looking around the shelves for a bit today, after I warm up with some joe.”

“Who’s joe?” Olivia asked as she measured the grinds she’d made, and David groaned with what Anthony suspected was a secret appreciation of the joke.

“Every time.” He muttered, and she waggled her brows as she dumped the grinds into a coffee dripper. The kettle began to wail, and she pulled it off the burner and slowly poured a bit into the grounds, careful not to splash. “I could recommend a book if you need some inspiration.”

“I’ll browse your selection first. I’d love to see what you have.” Anthony said instead of ‘I don’t want you to see what I read.’ “But maybe later I’ll come to you.”

“He’s good at recommending.” Olivia put in. “You’d think it’d be all knights and faeries but he actually knows what to give people.”

“Me? Competent? Quite the shock.” David said, his brows raised high, and Olivia gave him a cheeky grin as she set down the kettle. “You know I’m a librarian, not just some hermit in a big brick building, right?”

“You don’t want me to answer that.” She said and handed them the cream and sugar pots. David gave her a joking look of chagrin as she poured the dark coffee from her pitcher into two teacups; the first depicted what Anthony believed to be snapdragon, the second a patch of little blue flowers with yellow centers that he couldn’t quite place.

“Thank you.” David said as he took the snapdragon cup that was offered to him, and Anthony said the same given his own. David poured in a bit of sugar and nixed the cream, but Anthony poured a big wallop of both. “I’ll leave you to your reading.”

He tipped his head and took off, and Anthony tested his coffee with a quick sip – Olivia made it strong, that was certain, and it was still bitter with all that cream and sugar. He poured a bit more of each, had another sip, and smiled to himself. Good thing he’d gotten it piping hot or it would be entirely cool from the additions; now it was a lovely temperature, perfectly warm but meant to be had rather quick lest it go cold. With a large gulp, he thanked Olivia again and wandered off to inspect the shelves.

The library had a surprising selection for such a small town in the middle of nowhere, no doubt thanks to David’s meticulous enterprising. He eventually found another old favorite, Death In Venice, and settled down at his usual table. He drank the coffee quick as a lick and enjoyed every drop, then became absorbed in the tale. He had sat there for about an hour, enthralled in the story, until a shadow fell over him. When he looked up, he felt his eyes widen and his heart drop into his gut.

It was the first time he’d seen Mari without her waitress uniform. She looked like one of those new rockabilly girls he’d noticed around, especially in the south, with high-waisted capris and a gingham shirt tied at the waist, classic red to match her converse. His heart pounded as he tried to assess the severity of the situation; he couldn’t tell how much she knew from her calm, blank expression, nor was he aware of how much she’d told the rest of town. There was a high possibility that just outside those heavy library doors a restless crowd was waiting for him. To top off the whole nightmare, he noticed above all that Ian was nowhere to be found, and he didn’t dare decipher all the awful possibilities as to why he wasn’t present.

Wordlessly, Mari pulled up the chair across from him and sat down, her gaze even and subdued. Anthony tried to appear more peaceful than he felt, but from her lack of a friendly greeting he already knew they weren’t so friendly as they had been, so clearly she was at least aware that something was wrong. He could only wait for her to speak first.

“This is . . . this is unpleasant, Anthony.” She finally said after a long stretch of silence. “I trust you understand you’ve upset me.”

“Yes.” He said, his throat dry, but offered nothing more. She didn’t wait for him to speak again.

“We made it clear that we don’t trust many people, and when we thought we could trust in you, you invited yourself –” She looked around and lowered her voice. “You invited yourself to my husband.”

He nodded bashfully, but felt some stubborn refusal to apologize. He wanted to wait to figure out if that would make things better for him, and if it did then sure, he would lie and insist he felt guilty about it, falsely beg for forgiveness. She continued again without waiting for him to speak, and he suspected that maybe she needed to put on a brave face and get through it.

“Ian has his inclinations. I’ve known about them for ages, he told me when we’d met. I don’t know how you figured that out, but that’s not really something I’m concerned with when I come back from shopping to find him sobbing.” There was a fire in her eyes. “He feels so guilty, so miserable because he’s married, he’s in love with me, he wants me, but in you came and he couldn’t help himself.”

Anthony briefly wondered if that was an exact quote, an admission. If Ian was just as interested in him as he was in that handsome chef with the cute little smile and a passion that inspired love and lust alike. Mari leaned back in her chair and inspected him a moment, the anger on her face now paired with pain.

“He made an awful mistake, but you willfully beguiled a married man, your friend wed to another friend – two who put far more faith in you than they did anyone else in a long time.” She sighed. “So you understand quite well how much you’ve hurt us.”

“Yes.” He said again, as he knew this time she expected an answer. “Yes. I trespassed in your marriage. I betrayed your trust. I hurt you.”

“And my husband.” She added quickly. “I imagine his feelings matter to you.”

“Of course they do.” He replied earnestly. “I never meant for this to hurt him, I just wanted – I don’t know. I didn’t expect him to become so agitated.”

She studied him once more, her brow creased with thought. _I just wanted him_ , that was his first thought, but not one he planned on telling Ian’s wife. 

“We didn’t tell a soul. You’re perfectly safe.” She said, a tad softer now. “I’m sorry, I should’ve prefaced with that, you look nervous.”

He felt the slightest bit of ease flow through him like a gust of cool air. At least he was safe, even if everything else may have been falling to shit. The newly temperate note in her voice made him wonder, though, if maybe she was less angry because she knew he was just a man caught in the pull of attraction as opposed to one with malicious intent, though that was just for the time being, just until his situation no longer allowed it. Maybe she felt safer thinking she still had his trust.

“I still won’t tell anyone about the two of you.” He responded, and she acknowledged it with a nod. He had nothing more to say from there, and went silent as he waited for his punishment. If they hadn’t told anyone about it there was no angry mob outside, but she might still tell him off further or ask him to leave.

“We put a lot of faith in you.” She said plainly, a reiteration of all she’d let out thus far. She seemed curious to know if he fully understood that, and he looked around carefully before he leaned in and lowered his voice.

“The fact that you were married in ’42 wasn’t lost on me. I’m so sorry.” He said, and she appeared suddenly distraught, though she was keeping her emotions at bay. “That was the year they started the internment camps for your people.”

She nodded wordlessly. He suspected there had been terrible losses for her, but he wouldn’t bring up such horrible things, not at that moment.

“Ian lied when he said you two weren’t criminals anymore. You fled from the government’s prison and he abetted you. Neither of you can ever go home.” It was only a hunch, but from the heartbreak on her expression he knew he’d inferred correctly. “You don’t deserve that, Mari, no one in those camps did. I understand why it’s been so long since either of you has made a friend – the risk of jail is too great. But I won’t tell a word of it. Not for friendship or affection, but because that’s the right thing to do.”

She looked away and hastily wiped a tear. It had been nothing but the truth, but it was the right thing to say, too, the thing that kept anything left between them alive. He let her take a minute to gather herself, and when she finally looked at him it was with the same quiet determination she’d sat down with.

“I think you should have lunch at the restaurant later.” She said, and Anthony felt a jolt move through him. It sounded so much like an olive branch that he didn’t dare believe it, instantly convinced that there was some sort of trick at play. But if she wasn’t going to punish him now, why wait until then? There was no advantage to it, only that Ian would be present, and Anthony didn’t think he’d masterminded some sort of revenge plot. She watched him process the invitation. “It’s up to you, of course. Just think about it. I think it would be good for us.”

And then she stood and left without another word. Good for us. The phrase rang of mending fences, something Anthony would love. He could regain their friendship, earn a place with them again, see how Ian was doing and what he would be open to in the future. Of course that was a terrible thing, to immediately wonder how he could take advantage of this to fuck the man he wanted, but without that their friendships were just a pleasantry, and he was far used to living without those. He wasn’t entirely sure what he would do going forward, but it wouldn’t involve mere friendship alone.

He waited a full four hours before he left that library, with most of that time spent staring idly at the wall as he tried to predict what would happen. But he couldn’t comprehend any of it, so he just had to admit he was starving, bundle himself up, and return his empty cup to Olivia with a friendly goodbye. From there he walked quickly to his car still sat in front of Cliffside, then climbed in, not thrilled at how cold it was. He drove to that little shack by the sea with more apprehension than he cared to admit, but repeatedly tried to smooth his nerves with reinforcements of a solitary reminder: they didn’t tell anyone. He wasn’t in danger anymore, at least no more than usual.

The parking lot was empty save for Ian and Mari’s shared car, which meant Ian would leave the kitchen and speak to him. He turned off his own car and took a heavy breath – it had been years since he’d been so nervous, but he wasn’t about to let it get to him, wasn’t about to be ruined by a little fear. He got out and found the wind even stronger out on the mountain in front of the ocean and swayed as he went to the door. When he opened it, he saw Mari right away, now in her usual yellow dress. She was at a table scraping wax, and when she looked at him she didn’t grin, but didn’t frown – only waved her hand to his usual chair at the bar. He went over with false confidence and took off his gloves and jacket, though the little building was very cold. When he sat, she came over and handed him a menu.

“Cold out.” She said softly, and he nodded.

“I thought I would get blown out to sea with that wind.” He remarked, though not with as much pep as he would usually muster. He looked down and was caught by surprise. “This is a different menu.”

The kitchen door opened with a familiar little sound, and he looked up with all haste to take Ian in. He didn’t look well at all, with dark circles beneath his eyes and an unusual pallor to his skin as though he missed the last two nights’ sleep. So the guilt had been as strong as Mari claimed, that was interesting. Maybe it should have pained Anthony, but in that moment his concern was with what Ian would say to him, their first words since he’d banished him from the kitchen.

“It’s the winter menu.” Was all he said, and his voice sounded weak and frazzled. “We create them seasonally.”

Anthony nodded and inspected it carefully, and he watched from the corner of his eye as Mari sat across from him, though Ian stood still.

“Because all the produce dies off in the cold.” Mari explained after a moment, with a careful little look meant to hide any hesitation. “We rely more on canned and preserved stuff.”

“Richer flavors, denser textures, more fats and dairy.” Ian jumped in, and Anthony sensed some relief in his words at the subject matter. The plan seemed to be awkwardly glossing over the events of two days previous, and it was one Anthony could unquestionably get behind. As long as they were friends, that was good enough for now.

“Good thing this is an Italian restaurant.” He considered giving Ian a charming grin, but felt maybe they weren’t ready for that yet. “So you mostly use tomatoes. Those are fine out of the can.”

“Very true.” Ian smiled faintly, then gestured down at the menu with some regained animation. “Tell me what you like.”

He read through the entrees quickly. “The lamb and polenta doesn’t have any mint jelly, does it?”

“God no.” Mari groaned and took the menu back.

“That question was almost patronizing.” Ian remarked, and moved to step back into the kitchen. “Want anything sweetheart?”

“I’ll take the last serving of last night’s gnocchi if you wouldn’t mind.” Mari answered, and he nodded with an affectionate grin and disappeared into the other room. Anthony was so temporarily hurt he almost wondered if that was their plan all along, to parade their relationship in front of him for the sake of pettiness: but he would be able to tell if they were remotely near capable of that sort of cruelty and the pair didn’t set off any alarms. Mari took out three sets of utensils, which thankfully meant Ian would be eating with them, then looked around for a minute, a bit out of place. Anthony took pity on her and spoke first.

“How are those candles going?” He asked, and immediately regretted it. She’d been out buying that candle wax when he was sucking her husband’s cock, after all, but if she made the connection she didn’t show it.

“They’re all as usual.” She said idly. “I was just scraping off the wax earlier, but it’s long past time for a lunch break.”

“So hurry it up in there!” Anthony shouted through the wall, and laughed when he heard Ian respond with a muffled ‘Mama Mia!’

“Sometimes he pretends we’re actually Italian.” Mari noted. “The only word we know is ciao, but since it means hello and goodbye I guess that counts as two.”

“You know a ton of food words.” Anthony pointed out. “So what if you can’t ask a local for fellazione?”

“Wow! Where’d you learn that?” She asked wide-eyed, and he fibbed easily.

“Have you forgotten I’m a traveling bible salesman?” He questioned. “If I go more than a day without meeting an Italian-Catholic I’m suspicious.”

She laughed, and he heard the kitchen door open and turned to find Ian with two steaming bowls.

“Honey, can you get my dish?” He asked, and she jumped up and went to the kitchen as Ian set down her and Anthony’s meals. Ian chanced a glance to him, the first time their eyes met since the shouting that had occurred two days prior, and he gave him a shy little smile that Anthony returned. The door opened again, and Ian sat down and fiddled with his utensils as Mari handed him his food.

Anthony looked down to his own dish and found that it matched Ian’s. It was a simple, elegant looking lamb stew that sat atop a bed of what looked like grits, all topped with shavings of parmesan. He could smell the tinny tomatoes beneath the heavy hit of rosemary and black pepper and was reminded how hungry it was.

“Leftovers again.” Ian said in an apologetic tone. “At least ours reheats well.”

“I don’t mind at all.” Anthony replied honestly, pleased at the old rhythm they’d started to regain. “What is this, anyhow? It looks like cornmeal.”

“Yeah, it’s basically grits. A cornmeal porridge.” Mari answered as she grabbed a fork. “But Ian loads it with cream and butter just in case the pile of red meat wasn’t enough for you.”

“Perfect.” Anthony said, then picked up a piece of lamb liberally coated in sauce with a bit of the polenta and took a bite. Lamb was so often tough and dry, but this was perfectly tender, and the sauce was basic without being bland. The garlic wasn’t as harsh as it so frequently could be, and he detected carrots, onions, and celery also simmered along in the stew. The polenta was so creamy without a bit of grittiness, a great accompaniment to the stew.

He groaned aloud and shoved a second forkful into his mouth, and from the corner of his eye saw Ian adjust slightly in his chair and sent a quick prayer that he’d been hastily hiding some arousal that had accidentally been Anthony’s doing. Mari only smiled.

“Always so complimentary. It’s going right to Ian’s head, you know.” She said, then took a bite of her own dish that Anthony surmised to be small dumplings tossed with a ground beef sauce that had a fragrant smell of red wine about it. “This is good, sweetheart. Of course I said the same thing yesterday, but it bears repeating.”

Ian could only give them a bashful half-wave as he chewed through a large mouthful of polenta. Anthony giggled at his expense.

“The poor dear can’t even calm his fan-club.” Mari cooed, and Ian made an indignant face, though with his cheeks so full it could only come off as laughable.

“Aw.” Anthony said, though he was still chuckling. “How do you take this abuse, Ian?”

“What? I am the perfect wife. We’re the picture of domestic bliss.” Ian finally swallowed his bite and prepared to speak. “Sh.”

“Wow.” Anthony laughed, and Mari dissolved into laughter as well. Ian chuckled quietly to himself, his cheeks all red from the attention. Once Mari got back in control of herself she simply rolled her eyes, gave Ian an affectionate look, and went back to her food with one handed rested gently on the counter.

“After this can I convince you to indulge in some pandoro?” Ian asked him with a hopeful look. “It’s a very cakey sweet bread.”

“Cakey, huh.” Anthony said, and Ian gave him a look. “I don’t know, honestly, this is so good and I’m getting monumentally stuffed.”

“What if we split it?” Mari asked through a mouthful of gnocchi. “I absolutely adore pandoro, I promise it’s so good.”

One of her fingers twitched on the hand she had lying on the counter, something Anthony for whatever reason noticed as Ian nodded enthusiastically.

“We have a mascarpone sauce.” Ian tempted him, and Anthony felt a grin tugging at his lips. “Maybe there’s even some candied orange peel back there.”

“Alright, alright, I’ll have some.” He finally agreed, and Mari made a little ‘aha!’ sound at the deal. “I thought I was supposed to be the salesman here.”

Ian laughed heartily at that, and stood to collect the dishes. Anthony stacked his bowl into Ian’s, and Ian slid both of those onto Mari’s plate. When her dish was taken away, she left her hand on the counter.

“Two forks, right?” Ian asked, and Mari nodded enthusiastically. He left for the kitchen, and she gave him a coy grin.

“Thank god you’re here so I have an excuse to eat dessert.” She said, and Anthony smiled warmly, honestly glad for the newly returned camaraderie.

“My pleasure.” He replied with a bow of his head.

It didn’t take long for Ian to reappear with a small blue plate – on it was an unusual star-shaped slice of very golden, light-looking bread. When Anthony inspected it more closely, he found that it looked quite like brioche, and was topped with a ribbon of a pale sauce flecked with vanilla bean and a delicate little pile of sugar-coated orange peels. Mari handed him a fork, then offered one to her husband.

“I’m so full, I might explode if I have a single bite of this.” He said, but took the fork anyway. 

The three of them dug in at the same time, but Mari got to it a second before Anthony did and let out a little sound of enjoyment.

“Amazing, darling.” She said, and Anthony took a bite himself. It was highly comparable to brioche, very buttery and rich, yet he could easily imagine himself eating the whole slice. The mascarpone was creamy with a great hint of vanilla, the overall dish not too sweet. He went back in for a bit with orange peel on it as Ian only took a single bite and rested his fork on the edge of his plate.

“Thanks. Yeah, I prefer this to panettone.” He said after he swallowed, then looked to Anthony. “That one’s not as sweet, has a lot of dried fruit.”

“I’ve seen them in the decorative boxes.” He nodded. “In New York, late November.”

“Last year?” Mari inquired, and he shook his head as he chewed a large bite.

“A few years ago. I’ve been driving for a long while.” He explained, then quickly sidetracked the conversation. “Which do you prefer?”

“Pandoro.” Mari said easily, then pulled the plate a few inches towards herself. “Sweeter.”

Her hand lingered on the counter next to the plate, and suddenly something clicked and Anthony understood exactly what was going on. The goal of this wasn’t to awkwardly brush aside what had happened between he and Ian the other day. It wasn’t to retain the only friend they’d had in over a decade simply because they wanted company. There wasn’t even some sort of twisted revenge plot lying beneath the surface of all these niceties. She wanted him to hold her hand.

_You invited yourself to my husband_ , that was what Mari had said in the library earlier, not that an invitation never would have been given from the both of them. This was that moment, that invitation being extended. In the most subtle of all ways, the couple were expressing their interest in him, the question being whether or not he should return it.

He stole a glance at Ian, who had been looking at him and gave him another shy little grin. Anthony returned it as his gaze ducked back down to the plate, the answer obvious. The feelings he had for Ian were too strong to deny, too strong to walk away from. Mari was charming and easy to talk to and, above all, irresistibly beautiful, and Anthony supposed that if he ever had to fuck someone to get to someone else he could’ve done far worse. What he felt for her was only friendship (at least for now) but he would fake it if he had to, and he’d faked plenty more than love.

“What’s your favorite season to cook in?” He asked, eyes still on the remainder of the sweet bread as he set his hand on the counter. “Since you’ve got seasonal menus.”

“That’s easy – Summer.” Ian answered. “Everything’s so ripe and fresh and in season.”

“Even though the kitchen gets to be about two hundred degrees.” Mari put in. “We get slow roasted like the lamb you just ate.”

Quickly, smoothly, Anthony took her hand in his, and she grasped him lightly as he rushed on to the next sentence before either of the pair could make a comment on it. He wanted to keep it as organic as possible and have the risk at a minimum; there was so much on the line here.

“I can’t imagine standing over that stove in the heat, though I suppose you make more stuff cold then.” He said, and Ian nodded without a glance to his wife’s hand.

“The bruschetta may be my favorite menu item all year round.” He said, and lit up a bit. Anthony was grateful to see the color begin to return to him. “Fresh tomatoes, red onion, basil, all served with garlic-rubbed toasted baguette slices. It’s so simple and fresh, but there’s so many ways to fiddle with it. Like –”

“Okay, settle down there.” Mari smiled. “Look at this, you’ve awoken the evil genius in him.”

“I can’t imagine he’s too evil.” Anthony said. “If he were to threaten me with a peach or something I wouldn’t be shaking in my boots.”

“You can make peach bruschetta!” Ian exclaimed, and Anthony snorted.

“The two of you are going to be trouble, aren’t you?” Mari asked as she put down her fork and allowed Anthony to snatch the last bite. “Suddenly I feel like I’m raising toddlers.”

“I should start on these dishes.” Ian said quickly at that, and Anthony perked up.

“Do you need any help?” He asked. “I feel bad, I’m the one dirtying the plates.”

“You’re paying, aren’t you?” Mari asked with a laugh, and Anthony suspected that for all that had occurred she wasn’t quite ready to leave him alone in that kitchen with her husband again. Baby steps. “Don’t worry about it, doll, business is business. In fact, I’ll do the dishes, seeing as someone has cooking to do.”

“Crab cioppino doesn’t make itself.” Ian dolefully agreed, and Anthony decided it was better not to ask. “Maybe next time I’ll let you work and we’ll put our feet up.”

“As long as you’re still the one cooking.” Anthony said, and Mari released his hand and pulled away. He stood, and the pair did as well as he threw his jacket on. Mari came around to his side of the counter to give him a loose hug goodbye, and he kissed her on the cheek. Ian came over a hug too, unusually intimate for two gentleman of the age, and Anthony kissed his cheek as well. Though he would have given both a peck on the lips he didn’t want to rush into it yet.

But he was ready. It was a beautiful risk, a frightening trove of possibilities, and he couldn’t wait to taste it. After all he’d had a long life of danger and even if this was exponentially less than that of his old days, it was enough. It felt right – now all he had to do was ensure they weren’t learning as much about him as he did them.

He left with a far lighter heart than he’d held the last time he walked out that door. It was far from the last time he would see them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaaand.....hiatus! thank you guys so much for reading so far and coming along with me on this amazing one year, three month (roughly?? i can't remember at all) journey, but now it's time to go on a hiatus of unknown length as i begin projects i currently can't discuss. if you guys want updates or just want to be friends hop on over to my tumblr @ jackiestolz where i post regularly. hope you've enjoyed so far and hopefully i'll one day return to this wonderful story! as always let me know what you think in the comments below :)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, what did everyone think? Feel free to leave a comment or talk to me on tumblr @jackiestolz. Obviously I'm a fan of cuisine, and I'm so looking forward to bringing my knowledge to the table. Hope you guys enjoyed!


End file.
